Castle of Glass
by minidraken
Summary: THE LIVING THINGS SERIES: PART 1: Time travelling fic! What if there had been no Ford Anglia? Harry is locked in and desperate for freedom. Will he be forgotten, or saved? Will he ever get to return to Hogwarts and how will he cope with the changes?
1. Take Me Down to the River Bend

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter One

_Take Me Down to the River Bend_

* * *

**31st July, 1992**

"_Harry looked up from the letter and gulped._

"_You didn't tell us you weren't allowed to use magic outside school," said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam dancing in his eyes. "Forgot to mention it... Slipped your mind, I daresay..." _

_He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared. "Well, I've got news for you, boy. I'm locking you up! You're never going back to that school, never! And if you try and magic yourself out they'll expel you!" And laughing like a maniac he dragged Harry back upstairs._

_Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following morning he paid a man to fit bars on Harry's window. He himself fitted the cat-flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside three times a day. They let Harry out to use the bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, he was locked in his room around the clock."*  
_

* * *

From that day on Harry knew no fresh air, no soft grass under his bare feet and no raindrops on his sunburned skin. He wouldn't be let outside, even if he screamed, raged, hit the door, pleaded or cried. The door stood stubbornly locked in place, holding him from the rest of the world – muggle or magical didn't matter – he was trapped in a place that seemed to be a whole other dimension altogether, where he was neither seen nor heard. Invisible.

He had taken to pacing the room, round and round in circles, in order to calm himself down. He would stand at the window, letting the rays of sun create a pretence of being free as he closed his eyes, imagining. But then he would miss the wind against his face and Hedwig would let out a shrill screech, flapping her wings furiously inside of her small cage, efficiently bursting his bubble of pretence.

He felt sorry for her, being locked up like that, particularly because none of this was her fault. It had been that weird little creature, the elf, who had stepped in it. No, not only stepped in it, Harry mused, that sorry little _Dobby_ had quite efficiently made sure the shit hit the bloody fan before making himself scarce. And to top it all, that off his rocker house-elf had stolen all of his letters, his birthday presents, successfully ruined the Dursleys' evening while _he_ got the blame, made sure he got a _nice_ letter from the Improper Use of Magic Office – all of that due to his loony delusion it was saving Harry's life. How messed up was that?

And now, all he could do was wait – wait for someone to miss him. To ask themselves where the _famous Harry Potter_ was and why he wouldn't reply to their letters.

Or would they even notice? Would they believe he simply ignored them, too caught up in ordinary summer vacation _fun _to deign to answer to some unimportant letters? Would they stop caring for him? Would he be forgotten?

As the days ticked by and no one came for him Harry could feel himself losing his wits. He would curl up in a corner, crying heart-rendingly until the tears ran out. He would sit on his bed, talking in a soothing voice to Hedwig, hoping to relieve some of her burdens even if he couldn't help his own. He would look out of the barred window, observe the passers by; Dudley and his gang chasing after the weak, Aunt Petunia mending the garden, Uncle Vernon leaving for work, Miss Figg coming home from grocery shopping – but not once did he spot anyone special, no old man clad in bright coloured robes, no red-headed kids, no tabby cat with eyeglass-marks around its eyes, no giant man with bug-like eyes behind a black, bushy beard. He truly was discarded, left utterly alone.

After five days of constant confinement Hedwig could bear it no longer and lost it completely. The noises she made, screeching, flapping her wings and pecking at the cage, must have awoken the entire neighbourhood, Harry feared, as he heard furious hands unclasping the hinges and locks attached to the outside if his door. It was thrown open and Uncle Vernon barged inside, tearing Hedwig's cage from its spot on the writing desk. Shaking it furiously.

"It's the middle of the night you sorry creature! I've had it! I've had it with you and your _noisy, worthless bird_! IT'S GOING OUT! This instant!" And with that his meaty sausage fingers whipped out a small key from out of his bathrobe pocket. Taking the cage under one of his fat arms he made to unlock the padlock dangling teasingly from the cage front, barely out of his reach. Harry threw himself at his arm, trying to rip the cage out of his uncle's hold, screaming loudly in fear.

"WHAT'RE YOU DOING TO HER? LET GO!"

But he was pushed away and hit the wall painfully when his uncle let out a triumphant "AHA!" as the lock came loose and fell to the floor. His thick fingers fumbled with the cage shutter and were just about to snap it open when a loud screech from the doorway interrupted him.

"VERNON! What in heaven's name are you up to? It's three in the morning, what will the neighbours think?" Petunia sneered down at Harry, where he lay in a heap against the wall with a desperate look in his naked eyes. "Get up, boy! Don't just sit there, take that horrible animal with you outside and make it go away. Right now!"

Harry certainly didn't need to be told twice as he stood up, snagged the cage out of his uncle's loose grip and tumbled downstairs, feeling his way as not to stumble, bat blind without his glasses. As he opened the front door Uncle Vernon's harsh voice rang from upstairs:

"And you better not think about contacting any of your... those _freaks_ with that bird, boy, or else!"

Harry sighed deeply, disappointed in himself for not preparing for the opportunity to do just that in case something like this happened. If he had only written a small note to Ron or Hagrid they could have known something was up – now, he didn't have any other choice than to let Hedwig go without being able to help him.

"Go to Hagrid, girl, he'll take care of you properly. I'll come after as soon as I can," Harry whispered softly as he opened up the shutter and watched as Hedwig flew away, a white dot disappearing into the dark blue blur.

He stood outside, enjoying the cold evening breeze sweeping through his hair, playing with the thought of just running away. To not go back upstairs and get locked behind bars. But he hadn't brought his glasses, and he was already cold to the bone, wearing nothing but his oversized pyjamas. Besides, all of his things were still locked away in the cupboard under the stairs, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing his wand, his broom or his father's Invisibility Cloak.

So, it was with a deep sigh Harry turned his back on the outside world and walked back upstairs to his own personal hell.

* * *

The days dragged by slowly after that, with no one there to keep him company. The first day after Hedwig's flight he rummaged through the shelves where Dudley's old, broken toys lay, tossed away just like Harry had been. He'd found an old Nintendo with no remotes, a cracked bicycle helmet, a plastic jar filled to the rim with Lego covered in some goo that seemed to once have been soda or ice cream. Then there were a couple of untouched books covered with dust. One was about airplanes, another about soccer. A third one was, to Harry's delight, an adventure story called _Don Quixote _by Miguel de Cervantes. That book kept Harry occupied for three days, which he spent laying in his bed, engaging in the wacky story of the make-believe knight, Don, and his much saner squire Sancho Panza.

The next day he returned to his habit of looking out the window, wishing for someone to come and save him. As the day ticked by and the sun stood higher and higher on the sky Harry felt how he started to sweat and how the air became heavy, hard to breath. He started pulling at his loose collar, desperately wanting to open up the window as to not to run out of air.

That thought became obsessive-oppressive as he, again, started to pace the room, not caring for the food he got through the cat-flap at twelve and five that day. His breathing became heavily laboured and when he was finally let out at seven to do his toilet he promptly threw up into the water closet, shivering with cold sweat at his temples.

"Are you sick, boy?" Uncle Vernon asked grumpily, no doubt finding the whole situation inconvenient as he was the one that would have to explain the state his nephew was in to the authorities if Harry had to be taken to the nearby hospital. Wouldn't that be an annoyance, Harry mused as he watched his uncle under heavy eyelids, taking deep gulps of air now that he finally was let out of his hell.

"No" he mumbled quietly, swallowing before continuing, "it's just... I just want to go outside for a bit..."

Uncle Vernon looked like he had been forced to bite into a lemon. "Outside?" he asked grumpily, seemingly thinking it through before angrily biting out "No! Not in your wildest dreams, boy, I told you! No funny business _or else_!"

Harry felt a heavy lump build up in his throat as he thought about how close he had been to be let out, but he wouldn't give up just yet. "But, could I go downstairs then? I'll be inside, honest! And... and no _funny business_ either! I swear! Just... don't put me back _in there_. Please..."

Uncle Vernon got a mean glint in his eyes as he leaned forwards, searching Harry's pleading gaze out as he started speaking in a deceivingly soothing tone. "You don't want to go back to your room, do you? Well, I suppose we could arrange something else for you. After all, the cupboard is still available..." The big man smiled mockingly as his nephew stiffened and got a sickly pale look to his complexion. "No? Then shut that trap and get your business done. You know the drill, five minutes, and if you even think about locking the door you will sorely regret it."

And with that his uncle slammed the door closed, leaving Harry to hurriedly clean himself up as best he could without breaking the time limit.

The following days became a blur in Harry's mind as he paced and paced, stared out of the window and sat by the door, clawing at it desperately. He knew the days passed by but he couldn't recollect which ones they were or how many of them there had been. He sweated a lot, changed his clothes at least twice a day and threw up his dinner every evening when he was let out to use the bathroom. His time limit got shorter and shorter until he finally gave up on trying to wash and just used the loo before silently walking back to his room. He noticed his hair was horribly greasy but couldn't find it in him to even care any longer.

His days standing at the window were finally over as he realized there would be no help for him. No one would come and he would be locked in forever. Knowing that he couldn't stand the summer sun seeping through the bars, he promptly pulled the curtains closed, being engulfed in cool darkness. He then pulled out his desk chair, placing it a few steps in front of the door before sitting down, staring at the cat-flap like a guard dog, waiting for dinner. He only moved from that spot when the small plates of food were pushed inside, when the door opened up for him at seven am or pm, or at night as he moved from his perch to lay down in bed.

He was sitting at his usual spot one of those days when the unusual face of his aunt opened up the door for him, freezing on the spot as she caught sight of him sitting there with a dead look in his eyes. He watched as her eyes trailed from his bare feet up to land on his greasy mop of hair.

"Out!" she screeched, pointing a sharp claw towards the bathroom door, sneering at the putrid smell he omitted as he walked passed her. In the bathroom her thin fingers quickly pulled off all of his clothing before seizing his upper arm and almost throwing him into the bathtub, not bothering with the shower curtains before turning the water tap on, full strength.

"Wash!" she snapped before tossing his musty clothes into the laundry basket and walking away with it under her left arm. Harry monotonously complied, pulling the curtains shut and scrubbing his skin until it shone bright pink. As he stepped out of the tub he noticed Aunt Petunia had left a clean towel on top of a fresh set of clothes for him, and marvelled at how such a simple gesture could leave such a heavy impact on him as he felt his throat constrict while thick tears started rolling down his pink cheeks. He hurriedly dried them away with the towel, pretending they were water from the shower, and got dressed.

When he walked into his room he noticed his aunt had made up the bed, taken all of his dirty laundry and the day's dishes downstairs for cleaning, no doubt. She had also, to Harry's horror, pulled apart the curtains, letting the sunset shine through into the room. He was just about to pull them closed again when a presence behind his back made him whip around, finding his aunt standing in the doorway with a demanding look in her eyes.

"Why haven't you eaten?" she asked in a slightly shaky voice, and Harry turned his gaze down to his feet, the heavy lump in his throat back full force.

"I wouldn't get to keep it..." he mumbled quietly, glancing up at his aunt who still stood looking at him with a contemplating expression.

"Why?" she demanded and Harry swallowed a sorrowful whimper before being able to answer properly.

"I don't know... I'd just throw it up."

Aunt Petunia got an unsure look in her eyes as she seemed to think hard about something. She then turned around, snapping for him to follow her, as she made her way downstairs into the kitchen. "Sit!" she demanded before throwing the fridge open, picking out a box of leftovers and heating it up in the microwave. She then served him the heated food with a big glass of milk before sitting down on the opposite side of the table, crossing her arms over her chest and demanding for him to "Eat!".

Harry did so, slowly, while watching his aunt tentatively. There was a firm line to her upper lip and she refused to look at him as he ate, he realized. Harry wondered about this sudden kindness she was sporting before noticing how eerily quiet the house around them was.

"Are we alone?" he asked in sudden weariness, looking behind himself to see if there was someone there watching him or waiting for the right moment to hit him over the head with a frying pan.

"Vernon is with Diddy, buying him a new uniform for Smeltings. They will be home soon..." Aunt Petunia rasped out, glancing at him to see if he had finished eating.

Harry put down his fork and knife to stare at her, trying to figure her out. Maybe she was feeling sorry for what they did to him? Or was she just annoyed at him for not cleaning himself up properly?

He then thought back to the fresh towel and clean clothes she had left for him and decided to take a chance at her good will, so he leaned forwards trying to catch her gaze and held it when he got it.

"Aunt Petunia, please, before they come back – let me get my stuff under the stairs. I'll leave and stay away, I promise! I won't bother you any more and you can keep on living your lives as if I never happened." He held his breath as his aunt pierced him with a conflicting look, squirming in her chair and casting fleeting glances towards the cupboard in the hallway. She then looked back at him, her eyes full or regret as she slowly shook her head, making his fluttering stomach turn to ice.

"Harry, I can't. You don't understand how hard this has been for me, keeping you up there... But it will be alright, you'll see. It'll only be a few days and then we'll take you away to your new school, and it will be alright... Don't you see? We will _help _you, Harry! You will get the help my sister always needed but never got."

There was a maniacal look to her eyes now and Harry felt dread crawl under his skin as he watched tears starting to fall from Aunt Petunia's blue eyelashes. "What are you talking about? What new school?" Harry asked in a fearful voice and the thin woman in front of him smiled shakily at him.

"It's a school for... _special_ children, Harry. It's called St. Brutus' Secure Center, and they specialize on boys who need help, just like you."

But Harry wouldn't hear any of it, his ears started ringing and he arose in wild panic, making for the front door in a wild bolt, tearing at it but not getting it open. He suddenly felt sharp, surprisingly strong fingers hold him back against a frail chest and he whipped around, screaming, crying, desperate for his captor to set him free. All he could think was, "They're sending me off to the asylum!" and when he couldn't get free he just slumped together, a heavy sac of grain, all his fighting spirit gone.

* * *

Harry was left with no energy, spending the last of his days at the Dursleys in bed, staring aimlessly up at the ceiling. He knew that at any time, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could barge in, ripping him off of his bed and stow him into the back seat of the car to make a long drive into the depth of London. "A few days" she'd said, but that could mean anything, and he didn't even know what day it was to begin with, so counting the days was nothing less than useless.

The sun stood high on the sky, shining through the bars teasingly, the day the door flew open. What happened next was so unexpected Harry couldn't stop his jaw from falling straight into his lap, laying discarded as he stared at the imposter in disbelief.

Severus Snape.

In his doorway, wand raised high and characteristic sneer in place, stood his hated Potions professor from Hogwarts.

He had lain for night after sleepless night, praying that a saviour would come for him, only to find that the one to answer his prayer was the greasy dungeon bat, someone who hated him with a vengeance.

Harry couldn't help it – he laughed. Hard. He could feel tears streaming down his cheeks as the chuckles turned into hiccups. He sprinted from the bed and threw himself at his dark clad professor, holding onto him desperately, burying his face close to his saviour's heart.

He could tell his professor was taken aback, not sure how to react, and forced himself to calm down and take a step back so as not to make the other uncomfortable.

"Sorry" he mumbled, looking down at his feet, still with a desperate itch to hold onto the black robes in front of him and never let go. He glanced up carefully, noticing Snape was looking around hesitantly, taking the entirety of Harry's hell in, before snapping his gaze guardedly onto the boy in front of him.

"Why are there locks on your door, Potter... and bars on your window?"

Harry was startled to realize he had actually missed the drawling voice of his professor, and was pleasantly surprised there had been no insults to the short demand Snape had uttered.

"There was a house-elf, you see... And when I didn't agree to quit Hogwarts he dropped a cake onto the head of Uncle Vernon's important guest and they decided to lock me in here since they found out I couldn't magic myself out and then they decided to send me-to-an-asylum-and-I-thought-I'd-never-see-anyone -again-and-"

Snape held up a hand, halting his furiously fast tirade of words stumbling upon each other in his haste explain. The man seemed to take it all in, staring at him with a deeply frowning forehead.

"If they knew you couldn't use magic outside of school... explain why they decided to put _bars_ on your window and _seven _locks on your door!"

Harry took a deep breath and gathered all of his last willpower not to break down in tears in front of his professor, again. "They're scared... of magic that is... I reckon they didn't want to take any chances."

Snape was watching him intently, disbelief written clearly on his face. "How long have they kept you here?"

Harry shrugged helplessly, gaining an angrily snarled "Potter!" for his lack of response, and sighed heavily. "I don't know, alright! Dobby came here on my birthday and they locked me in then... I don't know how many days it's been."

Snape's eyebrows had risen so high on his forehead they had disappeared behind the curtains of hair framing his face, and he seemed speechless. Finally, he croaked out "29 days" and Harry just couldn't believe it. The Dursleys had locked him in for the better part of a _month_?

"It's currently the 28th of August... They've kept you here for _29 days_? Impossible!"

"Apparently not..." Harry muttered tonelessly before realizing- "Hey! How come you know when my birthday is?"

He got an expressionless nothing in response before his professor pierced him with a demanding look, declaring: "Pack your things, we're leaving".

Harry let out a small huff of air in annoyance before admitting "I can't". Snape lifted his eyebrows expectantly and Harry continued "All of my things are in the cupboard under the stairs... except for my clothes and Hedwig's cage".

Snape stared at him for a couple of heartbeats before whipping around, walking down the stairs, calling for him to "bring your things". Harry hurriedly gathered his few, threadbare garments, picked up the owl cage and, last minute, decided to also bring _Don Quixote_ with him to wherever they were going. When he got downstairs he found his trunk and broomstick by the front door while Snape stood frozen still in front of the open cupboard, staring in disbelief at something, while Aunt Petunia stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the wizard with overly obvious contempt.

"Why is there a bed in the cupboard, Potter?"

"Behold, my previous bedroom," Harry introduced tiredly as Snape's furious eyes pierced his aunt with a calculating gleam in them.

"Is that so?" he muttered, his eyes promising certain death to Aunt Petunia, before he turned slowly and made for the door. "Are you planning on carrying that in your arms, Potter?" he snapped and Harry immediately sprang into action, opening up the trunk and stowing everything in his arms away, except for the cage of course.

"Can we leave now? ...sir?" he hastened to finish when he caught Snape's still furious gaze. The man simply nodded at him, taking hold of the trunk and pulling it out of Privet Drive 4. And Harry followed, leaving the dreaded house behind, never to return.

* * *

Harry made a firm decision to take a stand and decide he _did not_ like this apparition thing the sorcerers had going on. It literally felt like being pushed through a tight rubber tube, and he could clearly say he'd had quite enough experience of tight spaces to last him a lifetime.

He swayed a bit on the spot, regaining his balance, before trudging after Snape along the narrow industrial street they were walking on. Passing a worn-down grey brick house and turning left Harry read "Spinner's End 14" on the road sign attached to its façade. He followed his professor three houses down until they stood in front of the equally worn-down number 8. In the distance he could see the chimneys of some old industrial building, but it must be deserted, Harry mused, since there was no smoke coming out of it.

Looking around he found that most houses in this neighbourhood seemed to be empty and there were no people around as far as Harry could see. He pondered on why Snape had taken him to this ghost town as the front door of number 8 clicked open and he found himself in a gloomy, but comfortable, living room. The walls were lined with bookshelves and in front of a generous fireplace stood a plush Chesterfield sofa.

Snape put Harry's trunk by the foot of it and turned around to face his young student. "Potter, close the door. You will sleep on the sofa, the kitchen is the door to your left, the bathroom to the right next to the staircase. Upstairs are my sleeping quarters and you have no business what so ever leaving the ground floor – is that clear?"

Harry felt himself go stiff. So this was Snape's _home_? And he was _let in_, just like that? No death threats or fear inspiring promises?

He hastened to nod and exclaim "Yes, sir!" as he saw annoyance build up in Snape's pale complexion, and got a curt nod in return before his professor disappeared into the kitchen.

"I am making lunch. You, Potter, are taking a shower. Immediately!"

Harry certainly didn't need to be told twice. Glad to have his Hogwarts belongings back he pulled out a fluffy, red and gold towel from his trunk, followed by a clean set of clothes and his toilet bag, which had been sorely missed.

The bathroom was small, but clean, Harry judged and wasted no time in cleaning himself up as he had discarded everything called hygiene ever since Aunt Petunia dropped the bomb. As he looked inside the mirror after his shower he was startled by the sheer difference in his appearance from the last time he had bothered to look at himself. Which was, probably, the day before his twelfth birthday. After that he'd avoided his own reflection like the plague so as to not be forced to see the deep misery – feeling it had been quite enough. But now he was amazed by how thin he was. He'd always been thin, of course, but now he was _bony_. Probably even bonier than Aunt Petunia, which was quite a feat! And he'd grown, several inches! The sunburn he'd acquired from being outside in the beginning of the summer had faded completely and he was left with a sickly pale complexion, sporting quite impressive dark circles under his eyes. It almost looked like he'd been in a street fight! The tatty old clothes he was wearing looked even bigger on him now, although the jeans were finally the right length, he noticed with a half-amused snort at the irony.

Stepping out of the bathroom he caught a whiff of whatever Snape was cooking and his stomach rumbled in excitement at the delicious smell. He tentatively sneaked closer to the kitchen, not really knowing what to do with himself or what his sour professor was expecting of him. The old house decided to have mercy on him and made up his mind for him as he stepped on an especially old floorboard and it creaked loudly, alerting Snape of his presence.

"Potter," he snapped, making Harry halt in his tracks fearfully. "Stop lurking about and come here."

The weary teen let out a deep sigh and slipped into the small, rectangular room where the dark haired man, now clad in black slacks and a white button-up shirt with rolled up sleeves, wearing his hair in a loose bun at the back of his head – an odd sight to behold Harry thought – stood cutting up slices of bread before putting them into a small basket.

Harry could feel himself losing control of his chin for the second time that day and promptly snapped it closed as Snape turned around and ordered him to "Sit!". He wearily complied as his professor put a delicious smelling bowl of soup in front of him and sat down on the other side of the table, a bowl of his own waiting for him.

"Eat!" he ordered and looked at the boy in front of him as he took a spoon-full of soup and sipped it carefully.

"It's good... Delicious, really..." Harry mumbled into his bowl and Snape hummed in acceptance of the praise before holding out a can in front of the boy, pouring white liquid into his glass.

It was milk.

Harry lost it.

The insecurity of not knowing what to do, the weirdness of his hated professor suddenly being _nice_, the long depression, the meal's similarities to the last one he'd shared with his aunt. It was too much and there was no way for him to hold back the tears any longer. Not even the strong feelings of shame for bothering Snape could make the dry sobs die out.

To his utter astonishment, there suddenly was a presence kneeling down to his left and then he was engulfed in the warmth of an embrace. Forgetting his embarrassment, when a big hand came down on his back to rub soothing circles, he let it all go and threw his arms around his professor, burying his face into the crook of Snape's neck as he wept and wept.

It felt nice, he decided, being held like this. He'd never had that before, no one had ever bothered to comfort him about anything. He'd had hugs before, from Ron and Hermione, but neither of them had ever held onto him, letting him breathe and heal like this. It felt like something a parent would do...

He felt all his bottled up emotions leave him, the tight knot in his stomach loosen up, and the tears finally disappear as he let out a shaky breath and leaned out of the hold Snape had on him.

The onslaught of emotions and his letting it all out on his professor left him speechless, utterly unfamiliar with the situation he'd landed himself in. Snape didn't seem to react at all, though, and simply returned to his chair and started buttering a slice of bread. Harry followed his example and ate slowly, savouring every sip of soup, every piece of bread, every gulp of milk. When he'd finally finished he was left with an unusual fullness to his stomach, making him feel fuzzy and desperately tired.

"Thank you," he whispered and got a curt nod in return before the man arose and started waving his wand about, making the bowls, silverware, glasses and the can fly off of the table and into the sink where the dish brush wasted no time in scrubbing it all clean. The man let the gadgets do all the work and sat down again, looking contemplatively on the child on the other side of the table, and seemed to come to some sort of decision before throwing out a question to him.

"Do you suffer from any injuries or illnesses?"

"No," Harry said and got a look of clear mistrust, making him swallow nervously and admit, "when I was... _there_, I couldn't eat. I mean, I could eat but, I wouldn't get to keep it... But, I guess now I'm fine! I don't feel sick or anything".

"What about your knees?" Snape prompted and Harry stared at him wide eyed, taken by surprise.

"What about them?" he asked making his professor narrow his eyes at him.

"You have patches of blood on your jeans around the area where your knees should be, Potter. Don't. Lie. To. Me."

Harry looked down onto himself to call his professor's bluff and was flabbergasted to notice he wasn't being made fun of at all. Snape was right, there _was_ something wrong with his knees! "I... I guess I must have tripped or... something..." he muttered, not meeting the eyes of his professor, who knelt down next to him, again, and pulled up the legs of his jeans to look at the damage.

"These are scratch marks, Potter," he grit out, whipping his wand over the wounds, making Harry's knees tickle slightly while the skin grew back together.

As the man made his hasty wand movements the rolled up sleeve on his left arm slowly glided back, showing off the base of a weird looking tattoo, portraying a snake crawling out of a staring scull. Harry pondered on it for a few seconds before he realized the man it belonged to had asked him another question. "What?"

"I said, Potter, _why_ do you have scratch marks on your legs?" Snape bit out impatiently and Harry really didn't know what to say.

"I don't know! I guess I must have scratched them in my sleep or something..."

"Must have scratched them in your sleep? _Or something_?" Snape was glaring at him now and Harry could feel the knot in his stomach staring to rebuild. He wanted the kind, hugging Snape back...

"Tell me, Potter, what were you doing the last couple of days before I found you?"

Harry had to think, hard. He actually didn't know what he'd been doing after the day of Aunt Petunia's revelation. He knew he'd been staying in bed, not moving, not eating... He remembered someone force feeding him some sort of pasty broth from time to time, pulling him into the bathroom, yelling at him...

"I was... it felt like sleeping... but I don't remember much," he finally decided and looked up into the black eyes of his professor. "I don't know if I was scratching my knees or not, but I reckon I must have! Without realizing..."

Snape was still kneeling at his side, his eyes full of ghosts of the past, one hand still clutching Harry's right kneecap. "What they did to you..." he began, averting his eyes before continuing in a soft voice. "I can't imagine... It must have been awful for you. I..." he looked like he was about to swallow something horrid and Harry found himself feeling sorry for him, for some reason.

"I owe you an apology, Potter," Snape admitted and Harry, again, lost all control of his slack jaw. "I should not have judged you beforehand, not knowing all the facts. And I was... _wrong_. You are _nothing_ like your father."

"Was that supposed to be a compliment, professor?" Harry breathed out in disbelieving amusement.

"Mark my words, Potter, that's the best you are ever going to get from me," Snape said with a smirk and Harry let out a startled giggle, watching as the other arose and made for the living room, obviously counting on him to follow.

* * *

Flooing was even worse than apparating, Harry concluded, as he bumped his shoulder roughly against another chimney bend. The soot was everywhere, even inside of his mouth, and he silently made a pact with himself to avoid magical transportation as far as possible and simply use his good old broomstick henceforth. Then he made impact with the ground and tumbled out of a fireplace opening, landing on the dusty wooden floor of the Leaky Cauldron. As he arose and started brushing himself off he heard the eerily familiar sound of mocking laughter from behind him.

"As graceful as ever I see, Potter!"

Harry whipped around and caught sight of a certain blonde boy who never failed to make his blood boil in anger. "Piss off, Malfoy!" he hissed at the other who smirked nastily as he caught sight of Harry's face.

"Who blacked your eyes, Potter, I want to send them flowers!"

Before Harry could retort with a nasty comment of his own they were interrupted by a tall, dark clad man carrying a silver cane adorned with a snake's head at the top. The man put a hand on Draco's shoulder and Harry could clearly see the relation.

"Now, now, Draco, where are your manners? I beg your forgiveness for my son's bumbling behaviour, Mr Potter," the man said with a shark-like smile, stretching his hand out to grasp Harry's in a firm handshake. "Lucius Malfoy, a pleasure to finally meet you. Draco has told me _so much_ about you, Mr Potter." His gaze swept up to Harry's forehead, quite obviously staring at his lightning bolt shaped scar with a manic gleam to his grey eyes.

"I've heard of you too, Mr Malfoy, or rather... _Draco_ has mentioned you quite a lot!" Harry said with a sweet smile his sour looking school rival's way. "Often using you as a threat, actually."

Mr Malfoy was just about to retort with a falsely sweet comment of his own when Snape suddenly stepped out of the fireplace behind them, silently taking the scene in.

"Ah, Severus, what a pleasant surprise," Mr Malfoy said, his eyebrows raised high. "I take it _you_ are the one responsible for Mr Potter's... safety?" There seemed to be some silent messaging going on between the two adults, and it didn't seem Snape liked whatever Mr Malfoy was trying to tell him.

"Correct," Snape said, putting a warning hand onto Harry's left shoulder, starting to lead him towards the back door, where they would find the brick wall hiding the passage to Diagon Alley. "And we are on a tight schedule, I'm afraid."

"That is such a pity," Mr Malfoy hurried to say, searching for something to hold them back with. "Wouldn't it be a pleasure to, perhaps, have lunch? For _old time's_ sake? At a _private_ setting?"

Snape turned back around, a dark look in his eyes that seemed to carry some sort of warning to the blonde man holding them back. Catching the potions master's gaze Mr Malfoy started sneering in barely hidden anger, clenching his hand around the snake head until the knuckles turned white.

"I'm afraid we have already eaten, Lucius," Snape said and Mr Malfoy got a fierce gleam in his eyes as he hurried forwards, grabbing hold of Harry's shoulders while exclaiming, "What a pity! A pleasure, Potter," before kissing both of his cheeks and brushing past, calling for Draco to follow him.

As the blondes disappeared into a raging green flame and Snape led him through the brick wall passage, Harry couldn't help but feel tension, paranoia, as if he'd barely managed to escape certain death. Looking up at his professor, he saw the dark look was still firmly in place.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked wearily, and Snape let out a soft hiss of annoyance.

"That was you barely escaping death, again, Potter!" he said and Harry sighed sadly, muttering "thought so" to himself, thinking back to the rich, shark-like wizard and wondering why everybody seemed to be after his blood.

"What did he mean with 'for old time's sake'?"

He only got an annoyed glare in response.

* * *

Their shopping trip was swiftly taken care of as Harry already had most of his supplies from last year left and undamaged. However, he was in need of new robes thanks to his growth spurt, and there was a long list of books to take care of. It was not only long, it was mighty odd as well – consisting of no less than _seven_ books of the same author: Gilderoy Lockhart, and one _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 2)_ by Miranda Goshawk. Judging by Snape's reaction to the Lockhart books he suspected this year of Hogwarts to be... weird.

Upon arriving back at Spinner's End 8 Harry nearly had a heart attack as he tumbled out of the fireplace and found himself facing a crooked old lady wrapped up tightly in a worn knitted plaid. The woman seemed just as startled as he was, peering at him with dark hazy eyes from behind a crooked nose and loosely braided white hair.

"Ah, I see you have met my mother," Snape said as he stepped out of the fireplace behind him. "Mother, this is Harry Potter, and he will be staying with us for a total of three days before it is time for him to return to Hogwarts."

Snape's mother seemed to become alive with an inner shine as she heard his name, and she hastened to limp forwards, grasping his hand in a weak grip, smiling at him with yellow uneven teeth. "Eileen Snape, Mr Potter, it is such a pleasure to get to meet you. May I call you Harry, dear?" she said and this time, as opposed to when Mr Malfoy had shaken his hand, the greeting was genuine.

"You shouldn't be walking around so carelessly, mother, especially not when alone. You know this! How did you even get down the stairs?" Snape reprimanded kindly and led the old woman to sit down in the Chesterfield.

"Yes, yes, never mind that," Eileen snapped impatiently, looking up adoringly at her son. "But where were you? I thought I smelled soup!" Harry couldn't help but smile at the adoring picture the Snape pair made and faintly recalled what the mirror of Erised had shown him. He deeply wished he could have something like that of his own.

"Yes, I saved some for you..." Snape said and the old woman in front of him let out a pleased little "oh!" and smiled brilliantly. "And I have been in Diagon Alley, helping Potter with his school supplies."

"That old goat ordering you around again, Sev dear?" Eileen sighed unsatisfied and Harry's smile widened at the cute nickname she used for her son, as opposed to aunt Petunia insisting on referring to _her_ son as _Diddy_, or worse: _Dinky Duddydums_.

"Yes, he sent me an owl this morning, demanding my... _services_."

"And he told you to let Harry stay here as well?" Eileen demanded with a sharp, intelligent look in her eyes.

"Not... exactly. But he won't object, I'm sure... Now, let me get that soup for you. Don't. Move."

Eileen smiled brightly and turned towards Harry who was still standing by the fireplace, not knowing what to do with himself. She patted the sofa seat next to her and winked mischievously at him. "Give an old hag some company, won't you, Harry?"

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for reading! I can't believe I've finally written something, and finished it! Wish me luck on the next chapter. _

_Mischief managed!_

*Rowling, J.K., _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, _Bloomsbury, London, 1998


	2. Take Me Down to the Fighting End

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Two

_Take Me Down to the Fighting End_

* * *

Freedom. Finally.

Harry took a deep breath, stretching his arms over his head, feeling the grass scratch against his bare arms where he lay by the river bend in the outskirts of the village Cokeworth, where Snape and his mother lived. Birds were twittering in the nearby tree-tops, ducks were swimming around in the muddy river and quacking merrily. A couple of skinny muggle children were playing near the old industrial building – throwing handfuls of mud at each other. It was restful and precisely what Harry wanted in life: peace.

As he'd slowly fallen asleep in the sofa in front of the crackling fire his first night at Spinner's End he'd felt the contentment creep up on him and lull him into a deep sleep full of peaceful dreams of his mother and father, laughing and holding him close. No screams, no evil laughter and no green light of the death curse.

And when he'd woken up and found Snape in the kitchen, baking pancakes for him and Eileen, he had felt how all of his anxiety and restlessness simply ran off of him in cleansing cascades.

Eileen Snape was a sweet old lady, Harry had found, who kept bossing her son around, although in such a charming and loving way you almost didn't notice her manipulation. Harry actually wasn't sure her son knew of her true colours, too ensnared by her lovely smiles and compliments to become suspicious when she made him rub her back, go into town to buy chocolate for her or cook her her favourite dinner of chicken drumsticks. The young boy took notice, though, and couldn't help but share mischievous smiles with Eileen whenever she managed to bully Snape into doing something particularly conspicuous for her.

You could tell Snape adored his mother and took her illness very seriously, giving her strengthening potions from time to time, checking up on her blood pressure and leading her all over the house – even though Harry had seen in several instances that she could move perfectly well on her own.

He'd asked her about it, what had happened for her to lose her strength, and she'd slumped tiredly, sipped on her cup of steaming tea and stared off into the roaring fire. She'd told him of her ill-fated marriage to the muggle man Tobias Snape and of his drinking habits – of his abuse. Harry felt deep sorrow for what this charming woman had had to go through, and came to realize that Severus Snape's childhood must have been just as sorrowful as his own.

Eileen had been shunned from her family for her association with the muggle man, and after years of his abuse she'd started to lose faith in life, her magic slowly leaving for her to become an empty shell of the woman she'd once been.

Tobias had lived his wicked life, sucking the life out of those around him, until Severus' sixth year at Hogwarts, when the drunken man had rummaged about upstairs, looking for something before he suddenly tripped and tumbled down the steep staircase, crashing to his death with a snapped neck. Even though his family was finally free of his abuse, the poverty and depression still lived on for those left behind. Both Severus and Eileen would have to live with the consequences of the life he kept, forever.

"Sev was such a sweet child," Eileen exclaimed with tear-filled eyes in the middle of her story, wiping them away with a small cloth Harry handed her. "He would always do his best to protect me, whatever mood his father was in, he would whip out his wand and stand in front of me. Alas, Tobias soon realized Sev was only bluffing when he never actually hexed him with anything. But he would still be there, standing straight backed and taking whatever came to him."

"Sometimes," she continued, a sudden spark awakening in her misty eyes, "sometimes, when Tobias was at work, Sev would invite Lily over and we would have a blast, baking cakes, playing hide-and-seek. She was a fine young woman, your mother."

And she continued to tell him tales of her life, seemingly happy to finally let it all out, but Harry's mind was stuck on the weirdness of Snape being childhood friends with his mother. It was something that had kept him up at night after his talk with Eileen, making him ponder on the fact that his professor had hated his father, but been best friends with Lily Evans: his mother. It just didn't add up somehow.

It was with a start that Harry realized that meant that Snape probably knew aunt Petunia from before as well, and suddenly the dark looks the two grown ups had shared at Privet Drive made sense. They must have hated each other ever since being kids! Or, had something else happened between them after the death of his mother?

Harry kept asking himself question after question about the weird relationship being revealed to him, but never managed to build up the courage to ask his reserved professor about it, no matter how much he deep down wanted to know everything about it.

And suddenly it was too late as Snape stood by the door, kissing his mother good bye and telling Harry in a stern voice how to use the floo system to get himself to platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross in two days. And then he was gone – leaving his serenely smiling mother behind.

Harry was just about to ask Eileen how she would manage without her son when there was a sharp rap at the door and a young witch strode in in a fashion that obviously showed she'd been there many times before. She introduced herself to Harry as Tanya Wilson, Eileen's personal caretaker, before promptly hurrying upstairs, exclaiming loudly in dismay at the unmade bed and discarded clothes she apparently found in the old lady's room. Eileen rolled her eyes and winked at Harry, whispering, "A bit of a hot-headed nutcase, that one," before limping upstairs after her.

That was when Harry took his chance to go outside for a while, stretching his sore limbs and trying to get back the tan he'd lost by being inside for the entire month. He'd been walking around outside for long periods of time ever since he got to Cokeworth and knew the overall layout of the village by now. His favourite place had quickly become the precise spot where he lay now – at the river bend, behind the industrial building.

What he didn't know was that, over twenty years ago, this precise spot had been a favourite meeting place for a certain spider-like, scrawny boy and his red headed, brightly smiling best friend. A secret sanctuary where they could unleash their weak magic to show each other, away from jealous sisters and angry fathers.

These three days had been like heaven for Harry, and he'd been spared from the unusual and peculiar happenings that seemed to be drawn to his person like metal attracted to a magnet.

The only thing that had been the least bit odd was when he'd gotten undressed for bed the first night and found a thin, shabby, black book in his back pocket with the faded numbers of "1939-1943" on its cover. The dates of the years all had one page each, starting with the 1st of August 1939 and ending with 30th of June 1943, but nothing was written on any of them, not even short notions of times at the dentist or birthdays. He was just about do discard it as some notebook that had been lying around in Dudley's second bedroom for Harry to accidentally take with him in the confusion of leaving Privet Drive – then, he got to the first page and noticed a name scribbled there.

"T. M. Riddle" it read.

Although the year on the cover was weird, Harry supposed it could be one of his cousin's trophies from some bully victim of his. It wasn't unheard of that Dudley nicked things here and there from people that wouldn't stand up to him. As a matter of fact, when they were kids the one month older boy had made a habit out of sneaking into Harry's cupboard and snagging everything he ever acquired that held some sort of meaning to him.

So, dismissing it as some random book, not stretching his mind to the weird half-hug he'd gotten from Mr Malfoy, he shrugged and put it into his trunk and out of his mind, vaguely planning on using it for himself never minding the year was all wrong.

Harry was pulled out of his musings by a shaky voice from behind him.

"Praise the Lord, there you are, dear. Quick, hide me!"

"What?" Harry laughed as Eileen limped in behind the bushes and sat down slowly, smirking at him when seated and hurriedly casting a glance behind her shoulder.

"Tanya's in a bit of a _mood_, if you know what I mean. I don't know where she gets it but she seems to believe I'm acting much worse than I'm actually feeling. Can you believe it?"

Harry raised his eyebrows, a smirk of his own gracing his lips. "Wherever did she get that idea from?" he asked in good humour and Eileen pierced him with a suspicious look.

"You haven't snitched on me, have you?"

"Of course not!" Harry exclaimed seriously, "I'm having way too much fun seeing you boss everybody around to ruin it," and Eileen smiled pleased at him.

"You're such a good lad, Harry. I wish you could stay longer." And Harry somehow knew she meant it.

* * *

The scenery flashed passed the compartment window, and Harry could just barely see his own reflection in the glass as he sat staring out, feeling a slight unease creep up on him. After all, the compartments of the Hogwarts Express were _small_, crowded, with room for four, tops six very thin passengers in each. The knowledge that it was possible for him to leave the box at any time was what kept the panic at bay, but he could feel his breathing starting to speed up never the less. "Six hours of _this_?" Harry thought nervously and arose from his perch to stand at the compartment door, looking out for a tall boy in hand-me-downs and a bushy haired girl with her nose in a book. No one came.

To distract himself he searched his mind for something to pass the time. He'd already changed into his school robes, glad to discard his tatty old clothing, so he couldn't do that... He turned to his trunk and started to flip around his things, halting as he caught sight of his dear companion – _Don Quixote_. He was just about to close the trunk when he saw what had been lying under the much bigger adventure novel. The small, black diary.

Changing his mind, he decided to start documenting his second year at Hogwarts instead of reading a novel he already knew by heart, and picked up the other book instead, followed by a quill and his inkwell.

He quickly flipped through the pages in the first part of the book until he found the page where it said "1st of September" at the top. He dipped the tip of his quill into the ink and set it at the beginning of the page, pondering what to write.

Should he retell his entire day up till this point? Should he write of his summer? Of the year that was to come? How should he begin? Dear Diary? Hello? Or just simply begin without a greeting?

To his horror he realized the quill had started dripping while he sat with his head in the clouds, and hurriedly snatched it away to inspect the damage. As he held the book close to his face, looking at the disastrously big blob, he was startled to realize it was fading away – seeping into the very pages of the book! He flipped through the pages to see if it had stained any of the others, but found no trace of it.

With a deep frown he turned back to the page of the day and watched, wide eyed, as script started forming of its own under the date.

_11:00 – Hogwarts Express _

_Finally on my way back to Hogwarts. Can't believe I'll have to go back to Wool's for four more summers before I come of age. Those Muggles'll be the death of me, I just know it! Barely managed to sneak out at all and had to buy my school supplies on the way to the train this morning. Mrs Cole has been very suspicious of me lately... _

_Six more hours of train ride before I'll be home again. Let's just hope it'll be a journey undisturbed by Avery, or worse, Selwyn. Salazar knows I can't stand them! _

_Remember: Knockturn 2 turns left, 1 turn right. Owens sells cheap robes, Borgin and Burke's! _

Harry couldn't help but sit helplessly staring at the text, that had just faded into existence on its own, with his jaw in his lap. What was going on?

He was just about to try his luck and write something of his own when the compartment door flew open and a clearly relieved voice cried out "Harry!", making him fly to his feet in alarm. In the door opening stood his two best friends, smiling brightly at him, and Hermione wasted no time in sprinting forwards and hugging him tightly around the waist. "You're alright!" she sighed before letting him go, her expression morphing into a more serious one. "We were so worried! Why didn't you answer any of our letters?"

"Give it a rest, would you, he's not going anywhere," Ron whined teasingly while sitting down on the seat opposite of Harry, smiling roughly at him. "Wotcher, mate," he said before noticing the little black book on the small table. "Didn't know you kept a diary."

"I don't," Harry explained, holding the right page up for his friends to see. "Look" he said and the other two leaned in, deep frowns on their faces.

"What are we supposed to look at, Harry?" Hermione asked uncertainly and Harry flipped the book around to see – nothing. The scribbles were gone!

"No... Nothing..." he said, laughing nervously. "Should've seen your faces... so funny..."

"Merlin's knickers, you're such a comedian," Ron said in obvious sarcasm, shaking his head with a wide grin on his face. Harry just smiled half-heartedly, glancing down at the suddenly empty book in confusion.

* * *

The rest of the train ride Ron and Hermione did their best to make Harry talk, while at the same time trying not to be too blunt about it. Harry really did try to tell them as much as possible, but he was a bit too distracted by the little black book burning a hole in his robe pocket to engage enough in his explanations, ending up giving them an overall summary that didn't really tell them much. They eventually gave up and tried to engage Harry in the stories of _their_ summer vacations, which he listened politely to, asking short questions when the need arose and laughing briefly at the appropriate moments, but his mind was elsewhere.

How was it possible for a book to absorb ink and then use it to write, on its own, a message that, after a few seconds, simply disappeared? Or, was it the book at all? How could he be sure it wasn't a real person? Was there someone sitting on the same train as Harry did writing in his or her diary for it to mysteriously pop up into existence in the other book? Or was there someone in the compartment with them, invisible, trying to freak him out? If that was their goal, they were doing a pretty good job at it, Harry thought with a weary sickness to his stomach.

The evening flew passed him in a haze as he went through the motions, greeted the right people, scowled at Malfoy, applauded when someone was sorted into Gryffindor, listened with half an ear at Dumbledore giving his annual speech and applauded again as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was introduced – but he still wasn't quite there. He was itching to get to his dorm so that he could close up the drapes around his four poster bed and figure out the mystery that was the little black diary.

He noticed how his friends shared mystified glances at his weird behaviour, and he tried to calm them down, not wanting his worries to affect them. For some reason his attempts seemed to make them even more suspicious and they stared openly at him, Hermione narrowing her eyes. "Harry... did something happen to you at home? It's just... why are you so...? You seem distracted."

They were still staring at him and Harry suddenly felt how the great hall became very _hot_. He pulled at his necktie discretely, trying to find something to say that would keep them off his case. He _really_ didn't want to talk about it right now. He would much rather put it all behind him, move on and instead concern himself with the new mystery conveniently waiting for him in his robe pocket.

"I don't know," he mumbled inconspicuously. "Already told you nothing much happened, and I mostly kept to my room..."

His friends looked at each other uncertainly and, to Harry's relief, backed off. For the moment, at least.

The clock over the big gates of the great hall finally hit ten and the students were dismissed, all the first years looking around uncertainly while the prefects raised their voices to make them gather around. Someone whispered "password is _wobbling warthogs_, pass along!" in Harry's ear and he turned to his left, whispering the same message in Neville's unsuspecting ear, making the nervous boy jump in fright to the great amusement of Dean Thomas, standing at his other side.

When the group of second year Gryffindors finally reached their common room Harry wasted no time in slipping up to the dormitory, changing into his pyjamas and finishing his toilet in record time. The room was still empty as he got out of the bathroom and sat down in his four poster, pulled the curtains shut around him and flipped the diary open.

It was still empty.

Remembering what happened on the train Harry took out his quill, dipped it in the ink horn and let it leave a heavy blot in the middle of the page. As expected the ink sank in and script started fading into view – but, there was more text this time, some of it seemingly in the process of being written as Harry sat staring at it. Trying out a wild guess, which had been forming in his mind in the middle of the welcoming feast, he carefully blew at the top of the page, watching as the letters started fading away at the spot where his breath had hit the paper.

"I was right!" Harry thought with glee, smiling victoriously. "The text disappears as the ink dries. All I need to do to see what's been written is to drop more ink onto the page." He promptly did so and saw how all the text returned to a sharper shade of black. Under the entry at 11:00, which he'd read on the Hogwarts Express, there was a new one that seemed to be in the process of being written as new text kept appearing seemingly on its own.

_22:29 – Slytherin Dormitory_

_Am I not delighted to find my unworthy self in the most glorious presence of my fellow Slytherin classmates? Wankers, trying to intimidate me with their pity sneers and overly obvious whispering while glancing my way. As if I need them to like me, anyway! Wish I could hurt them the way I can hurt the Muggles... _

_Had to suffer through another one of the headmaster's tedious speeches. I'm surprised his beard didn't catch fire what with the death glare Malfoy shot at him the entire time- _

_I didn't think the speech was boring, _Harry interrupted below the other script and, heart in throat, watched as it came to an abrupt halt.

_Who is this?_ came a hesitant reply about a minute later and Harry felt excitement making his heart speed up, his breath becoming laboured. Whoever was writing on the other end could also see what _he_ was writing. The diary must be some kind of means of communication! Like some sort of wizarding phone call – only, writing instead of speaking.

_I'm Harry Potter, who are you? Are you T. M. Riddle? _

_Yes... How did you get into my diary, Harry Potter? _

_No, I didn't get into your diary! I found it in my back pocket and now it's here with me! _

_It can't be, I'm writing in it right now!_

Harry stopped and thought for a second before replying. _Someone must have made a copy of it then... I think someone spelled it so that you could be able to send messages through the two books – like talking through a phone! _

_...You're just making stuff up, aren't you? Harry Potter- You aren't Harold Potter are you? Is this another one of you sick jokes? Get out of my diary, Potter! _

The furious tirade came to a stop and Harry stared at the words in disbelief. This boy actually didn't know who he was? He must be pulling his leg, Harry decided, shaking out of his stupor.

_I'm not joking! I'm in my dorm right now and I have your diary here, right in front of me. And I told you, my name is Harry, not Harold... Surely you've heard of me? _

_No, _came a short reply before the diary went silent for several minutes. Harry was just about to write something that hopefully didn't sound all too boastful when new script appeared on the page. _Look, Potter, I don't know how you got into my diary, but I want you out. Right now!_

_I already told you, I'm not inside the book, I have my own copy! _

_So you've copied my diary then? Why would you do that, you miserable nutcase! _

_I didn't! I found it! Who are you anyway? I don't recognize no Riddle. You're a Slytherin, right? _

_What's it to you? You're just a petty liar trying to pry into my business. _

_Look, I can prove to you I'm not lying. Let's meet up! I'll show you the diary and you'll be sorry. _

_Hardly, I'm not capable of being sorry. _

Harry stared at the text expectantly as the ink dried and left the page blank again. _Well? _he wrote impatiently.

_Fine! 11:00 sharp, fifth floor by the statue of Boris the Bewildered. _

_Good! I'll be there! So... what does T. M. stand for? _

… _I'm going to bed, Potter. Don't you dare be late tomorrow! _

_I won't if you at least tell me your name! It's only fair, you know mine after all. _

Harry smiled widely as three thin letters appeared on the page before slowly fading away. _Tom_

* * *

Harry shook his head in bewildered amusement as he checked his worn wristwatch and saw Tom was eight minutes late. The hypocrite! He looked around the empty corridor, studying the statue of the man wearing his gloves on the wrong hands, deciding that, yes he was on the right spot. Letting out a frustrated sigh he sat down on the bench right next to Boris the Bewildered and flipped the diary open on the page that read "2nd of September". As the ink of Harry's dripping quill hit the page furious scrawls faded into view, none of them in the process of being written.

_I see you're not only a peeping Tom and a liar, you're also low enough to break promises. _

And below that: _Don't you think I have better things to do, Potter, where are you? _

Harry looked around again, frowning deeply. What was Tom talking about? There was no one in sight – not even further down the corridor where the Muggle Studies classroom was located.

_I'm no liar! I've been here since even before 11, you dimwit! But where are you?_

_How DARE you call me that? I am seated on the left side of the bench next to the statue of Boris the Bewildered, on the very spot we decided on, and right in front of me on the wall is a painting of a Viking ship fighting a group of merpeople – if you were here you couldn't miss me! Which is why you ARE a liar, and I am LEAVING! _

Harry huffed impatiently. How far would Tom take this weird joke of his? Rolling his eyes Harry slid sideways on the bench until he was seated on the exact spot the other had claimed to be sitting on, staring straight ahead on the painting which had been described for a few seconds, before looking back down at the diary, intending to write a sour reply that explained that "_no, _Tom couldn't sit on the left side of the bench because _now_ he was sitting there". But then, right on cue, something peculiar happened.

All scribbles on the page had disappeared and been replaced by a blurred black-and-white picture, looking to Harry like a very small television screen as he could see the hazy shape of a person moving around minutely on the bench he was sitting on. Realization struck him as the picture turned sharper that he was looking at himself, sitting in the fifth floor corridor on the bench besides Boris the Bewildered, staring down at the diary with a quill in his hand. He leaned in close, frowning deeply as he tried to see the details of the picture. He was dumbstruck when he realized that the Harry he was looking at wasn't wearing glasses. And when colours started fading into the frame he saw that the boy wore a green Slytherin uniform, not a red Gryffindor one.

Before he knew it, his body was tilting, the window in the book widening, his body leaving the stone bench to dive into the diary. Next thing he knew he was spat out, back onto the bench. Only, his bum wasn't back to sitting on stone, he realized, but on a lap! Then, he was rudely pushed to the ground as a terrified yelp sounded from the person he'd landed on. Harry hurried to his feet, throwing the quill away to whip out his wand and turned around to point it at the person behind him.

Both of them froze on the spot, wands held high in offensive positions. Both of them stared wide eyed at the other, dumbstruck by how similar they looked – they could be _twins _Harry thought in disbelief. Was this another version of himself only in a parallel universe that could be accessed through a little black book, where he wore no glasses and was sorted into Slytherin?

Then he dismissed that idea as he started noticing the differences. Although the exact same height, having the same colour hair, there were slight differences that told them apart. They were both slim although Harry was more on the bony side, they both had green eyes although Harry's were bright when those of the boy in front of him were dark, almost black in colour. They had black hair, but Harry's was much messier and a few inches shorter while the other had a slight wave to his neat hairdo. They both had light skin although the other boy had a much more healthy glow to his complexion, and they had similar face-shapes, but Harry didn't have as marked cheekbones as the other.

The Slytherin boy was sweeping his gaze over Harry's body, seemingly just as mystified by their similar looks, to freeze when landing on his forehead. Of course, Harry sighed, _that_ would be another difference – the other boy had a flawless forehead when he didn't.

At his sigh the young Slytherin straightened up and pointed his wand at him with new vigour, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"How did you do that?" His voice was soft, but clearly commanding, Harry judged before he lowered his wand, not finding any apparent reason to use it. The boy didn't imitate his gesture.

"I don't know" Harry said, scratching the back of his head nervously, looking around the corridor. Nothing had changed, as far as he could tell, only the fact that he could now see the mysterious Tom Riddle. On the floor at his feet lay the discarded diary and before the other could react Harry bent down and snatched it, flipping through it hurriedly.

"The words! They're still here!" he exclaimed exasperated and Tom snagged it out of his grip with a deep scowl and an angrily snapped "give me that!" He then took a look of his own at it, clearly not finding anything out of the ordinary about it, and snapped his dark gaze back up at Harry.

"What do you mean, why wouldn't the words be there?"

Happy to see the boy had dropped his wand from its offensive position Harry stepped closer, eager to explain the mystery.

"You see, when I found the book, I accidentally spilled some ink on it, and it sank in- into the pages, I mean! And then words started forming on the page of the day, in this case, the 1st of September, which was yesterday! And I could see everything you'd written that day, and what more was, I could write back! But every time the ink dried all the text disappeared, so I had to be quick about it. This didn't happen to you?"

"No..." Tom said slowly, clearly thinking like mad, looking like he wanted to hex something in frustration. Then, he let out a heavy sigh, twisting and turning the diary around in confusion. "But, it's just a diary. An _ordinary muggle diary_, I don't get it! You just came tumbling out of it, straight out of nowhere..."

"We should go see Dumbledore," Harry said confidently. "He'll know what to do."

"No," Tom grunted immediately, still searching the little black book for answers, "not him, he's no good. We'll go to my head of house, he's better."

"What? Why would we do that, he couldn't help us with _this_," Harry said in a shaky voice, swallowing nervously as he pictured Snape's reaction to him getting into trouble on the second day of school. Never minding he'd been nice this summer, if he found out about this, nothing would stop him from leaving Harry hanging from his ankles in the dark dungeons.

"Fine, let's just get to the headmaster and be done with it, then," Tom sighed and started walking down the corridor towards the grand staircase.

Harry trudged after, muttering "that's what I've been trying to tying to tell you..." after the boy, but got no answer.

They walked out the fifth floor corridor, took the staircases to the seventh and made it to an ugly stone gargoyle, all in silence as Tom kept flipping through the book and Harry looked around in search for things that were different from what he was used to. He didn't really see anything, although he thought a few of the paintings in the stairwell were switched around.

Coming to a halt the two teens looked at each other, Tom muttering "know the password?" and Harry shaking his head in the negative. He hadn't even known this was where Dumbledore's office was located.

They were just about to start looking around in search for clues when there was a raspy voice from behind them declaring "silver lining". The ugly gargoyle jumped to the side, revealing an ever moving spiral staircase. Harry whipped around and caught sight of a very old, frail man who was standing there, smiling at them behind a thin, white beard reaching down to his upper chest. He wore a deep purple cloak with many layers and a dented wizard's hat in the same colour, on top of a shiny bald spot, crowned by frizzy white wisps of hair. He was a short man, although he was taller than both Harry and Tom, and he was a tad bit on the heavy side, although one couldn't call him chubby. His yellowing teeth were revealed as he opened his smiling mouth and said, "After you, lads."

A bit confused Harry followed Tom up the stairs and entered the big, circular office of the headmaster. The room was filled with trinkets, plush armchairs, low tables, paintings, bookshelves, and in the middle of it all stood a heavy wooden writing desk with an awe-inspiring high-backed chair behind it. Nowhere in the entire room could Harry find Professor Dumbledore. He was just about to ask the man slithering inside behind them if he knew when he would be back, but Tom took the words out of his mouth.

"Professor Dippet, we came to talk to you about something strange which just happened."

Harry frowned in confusion as Tom started retelling everything that had happened to them to the old man, now seated in the chair behind the desk. They hadn't come here to talk to _him_, Harry thought, but then realized that _this_ might be one of the differences he'd been searching for. Maybe this "Professor Dippet" was headmaster and not Dumbledore in this world... dimension, or whatever it was.

"Lad- Harry was it? Could you please explain to us exactly what happened for you to come out of the diary?" Professor Dippet ordered soberly.

"Oh, yes alright. I was just sitting there, looking in the book when there suddenly was a picture in it- like a television screen... Oh, it's a muggle device," Harry explained as he saw the mystified expressions the two others wore. "Anyway, I leaned in closer and then I tipped over, like... almost as if I did a somersault! And then I was back on the bench, only, I was sitting on _Tom_, not the bench..."

Professor Dippet hummed thoughtfully before turning back to Tom. "Could I see that diary?"

Tom handed it over reluctantly, watching closely as the headmaster examined it, twisting and turning on it, cast a couple of spells on it and finally handed it back. "This is a perfectly ordinary Muggle book," he declared, clearly exasperated.

"Oh Dippet, you fool, but of course the boys are _lying,_" came a rough shout from one of the portraits on the wall, and the professor turned in his seat, looking intently at the clever looking wizard with a dark, pointed beard.

"And what makes you say that, Phineas?" Dippet asked a bit distractedly, twinning a hand through his thin beard, deep in thought. The man in the picture pierced Harry and Tom with a mean glare, leaving no doubt about what he thought of them.

"They are students, Dippet, that's what they _do_. And if they aren't lying they are so infernally convinced they are right, they won't take a second look. For instance, Mr Potter, what do you believe happened?"

Harry flinched at the abrupt question and tried not to snap at the very rude portrait. "I think this is a parallel universe, because most things are exactly the same, but other things aren't. Like, Professor Dippet for example – in my world Professor Dumbledore is headmaster."

"Aha, isn't that rubbish, Mr Potter, thank you for making a good example." Harry could feel his cheeks burn at the ill-meant praise. "This young boy thinks he has it all figured out when his elders easily could tell him there is _no proof _or even _likely hypothesizes _that would make it the least bit believable there to be parallel universes. Now, what _is_ much more likely, Mr Potter, is that you are an _imposter_! Possibly sent by the Dark Lord himself!"

"What?" Harry exclaimed in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? I'm no imposter! And Voldemort would sooner _kill_ me than send me on some freak mission to Hogwarts!"

The room went very quiet, everyone staring at him in confusion, and then came Professor Dippet's hesitant voice: "I'm afraid we don't understand, lad. Who is this Voldemort you're speaking of?"

"You're kidding me right?" Harry said, turning to the portrait of the snarky old wizard. "You said so yourself, 'the Dark Lord' you said!"

"Yes, but the Dark Lord in question is Gellert Grindelwald – not this Voldemort chap..." Phineas snapped impatiently.

"Grindelwald?" Harry asked, licking his lips hesitantly. "But... He was defeated! Several years ago, wasn't he? By Dumbledore! 1945 I believe! It says so on his chocolate frog card!"

"Bah! I should have known!" Phineas exclaimed bitterly, but Professor Dipped smiled at Harry, slumping together in his chair in obvious relief at finding a plausible explanation.

"That explains it, then. Now, I must ask you, lad, what year is it?"

"Oh God, oh no," Harry said as it dawned on him what was hinted at. "This isn't another universe, is it? It's another _time_! I've travelled through _time_!"

"But, how will I get back?" Harry exclaimed when the headmaster was only smiling at him from his seat at the desk.

"Oh... I haven't got the foggiest!"

* * *

_A/N: Thank you SO much for the reviews! This is so exciting! I'm pleased you guys like what's been written so far. Until next time!_

_Mischief managed! _


	3. Wash the Poison From off My Skin

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Three

_Wash the Poison From off My Skin_

* * *

He couldn't believe it! He had certainly stepped in it this time! _How _was it possible for him to have such bad luck? Was it even possible for anyone other than him to accidentally find a bewitched diary in their own pocket and, when starting to use it, be thrown back in time for the diary to not be bewitched any more, making it impossible for them to return to their own time? It was outrageous – nothing less than ridiculous!

Was this what that out-of-his-rocker house-elf had warned him about on his birthday roughly a month ago? The terrible happenings at Hogwarts – was this it? Or were these extraordinary happenings the result of another one of the elf's horrible efforts to _save_ Harry's life?

One way or another, it didn't really matter as he wouldn't ever have to see Dobby's big eyed, unfortunate face again. A lucky coincidence in the very dark whole picture. Professor Dippet hadn't known if it was possible for Harry to return to his own time, but he had admitted it wasn't probable – mainly because the means by which he'd been transferred could not be used again.

So, not only would he never see the house-elf again – he would never see _anyone_ again – and if he did, they wouldn't recognize him!

He felt a strong sense of loss clawing at his heart at the thought of his friends. Although there were a lot of people he sure wouldn't miss, such as the Dursleys, Malfoy and the creepy caretaker Filch, the loss of Hagrid, Ron, Hermione, Hedwig and his newly founded relationship with Snape and his mother, made Harry's breath catch and the heavy knot in his stomach from this summer return.

Sure, he'd only known his friends for a year, but it felt like a lifetime to him. Before Hagrid came to get him for Hogwarts a year ago, his life had been all different and very, very miserable. He'd barely found interest in anything, days just passing in front of his eyes while he watched in disinterest. When he finally had had a change to his long life of solitude and boredom it had been with a great hullabaloo, turning _everything _around. It was as if he'd finally started to live, as if he'd had one year of life, and now, everything that life had entailed was violently stolen from him.

Well, not everything, he admitted to himself. He was still a student at Hogwarts, he was still a wizard after all was said and done. He'd still be able to walk the corridors of the only place he'd ever considered to be anything even resembling a home. He'd still be welcomed in classes, in the great hall, on the Quidditch pitch and in the Gryffindor tower. He hadn't lost everything, even if it was a close call.

The greatest thing he'd lost, although he'd abhorred it deeply, was a place to fall back on. Number 4 Privet Drive hadn't been a home as much as it had been a prison, but still, having it in his life had created some sort of security for him. Now, he had nothing, no place he could go when the summer vacation started, even if it was far away from now. He also had no money any more, his parents not even close to being _born _yet, far from old enough to create a bank account for him to use. He was, for the first time in his entire life, completely and utterly alone. It felt horribly unsafe and, worst of all, terribly constricting. He was stuck with no way out of his situation and completely dependent on other people's mercy.

Harry glanced to his side and saw Tom walking there, just as lost in thought as he was, still twisting and turning on the diary he held in his hands, mystified.

Oh yes, the diary. How had he been so _stupid_? It had been in front of him the entire time, overly obvious, so easy he was deeply embarrassed not to have paid any attention to it. Didn't it say "1939-1943" on the cover? It was so clear, so easy, he couldn't believe how he'd missed it. Well, he hadn't missed it as much as he hadn't paid any attention to it, too caught up in the _inside_ of the book to think about any exterior facts. Still, he'd caught Tom's expression when professor Dippet revealed his status as a time traveller from the future. The other boy quite obviously found him uncanny not to having paid any attention to the cover of the diary, which would have enabled them to figure out part of the mystery on their own. Thinking about it made Harry's cheeks heat up and he pulled nervously at his necktie, taking deep breaths of air.

He really was pathetic.

Harry followed Tom down all seven staircases to the ground floor, looking around at all the unfamiliar faces as they entered the great hall, which on the other hand looked exactly the same as when Harry left it this morning... Or, rather, in 1992. He halted hesitantly as his guide made for the Slytherin table, and called after him.

"Tom! Am I... Shouldn't I sit at the Gryffindor table?"

Tom turned around to face him with a mocking expression grazing his features, his true Slytherin fangs emerging, Harry thought, having seen the very same look on Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson's faces before. "Well what do you know, I could swear you were one of those goodie-two-shoes who always follow the rules, even if they don't make sense. Such a shame!"

"That's not true," Harry interrupted, jaw tense. "Actually, it's the other way around! I'm known for _not _following the rules."

"Then prove it!" Tom said with an infuriatingly mocking smirk on his lips. Harry stared him in the eyes for a few heartbeats, hearing faintly how curious people started whispering about them, before stepping past the boy and taking a seat in the middle of the snake-pit.

"I'm impressed!" the other murmured as he sat down to his left and started piling up food onto his lunch plate. Harry just smiled faintly, feeling a bit disturbed by the looks they got from the Slytherin students surrounding them. None of them looked friendly, and some of them were openly glaring at the Gryffindor who _dared_ to infest their house table with his presence. Thankfully, most of the students and teachers had already had lunch and were elsewhere, leaving the boys of different houses to mind their own business. Not far from them, however, were a group of four boys who looked to be their age. Amongst all the Slytherins glaring at them, their looks promising certain death were the worst.

"Happy bunch!" Harry whispered to Tom, indicating with a twitch of his head whom he was talking about.

"Aren't they?" Tom smiled, sending off a death glare of his own in their direction, making them huddle together, discussing furiously in low voices. "Those are the lovely specimen I am lucky enough to share a dormitory with. Alfred Avery, Silas Selwyn, Romulus Lestrange and the _wonderful_ Abraxas Malfoy."

"Right, you wrote something about an Avery and a Selwyn," Harry said remembering, and Tom's face darkened to resemble a thunder cloud as he started chasing around the peas on his plate with a furiously stabbing fork.

"Yes, I almost forgot about your little adventure into my privacy," he hissed out and Harry felt himself shrink back in shame. It _had_ been terribly rude to read someone else's diary like that, he couldn't object to that.

"I'm sorry about that," he confessed and the thunderous expression on Tom's face lost its intensity, although he certainly didn't look happy. "It won't _ever_ happen again." And in a desperate try to evade the attention from his little mishap he looked around the great hall for something to talk about, his eyes landing on the blonde head of Malfoy Senior... Or rather: Senior-Senior.

"So... if _they_ aren't your friends, who do you hang out with, usually?" An easy question Harry thought. Apparently, Tom didn't. He looked down into his plate, sneering at a half-eaten potato before piercing it roughly with his fork.

"What would I need friends for? They're just nosy, loud and annoying anyway. I don't need them."

Harry felt his heart constrict in sadness at this confession. Tom didn't have any friends? He knew what that was like: _lonely_! He scooted closer to the boy next to him and smiled brilliantly at him.

"Alright, I'll be your friend. Your _best_ friend even!" He got a look of disbelief and sudden hope, before it all disappeared behind a firm wall of indifference.

"I don't need you, either!" Tom said coldly, but it was too late. Harry, who had seen the flickering hope in his dark green eyes, wouldn't have any of that and just smiled mischievously at him.

"Everybody needs _someone_! And, I think I will need you, actually, if I'm going to get through this," he confessed solemnly, watching as Tom thought for a moment before shrugging and turning back to his food, murmuring a non-committal "Suit yourself!" before biting into the mistreated potato waiting on his fork. Harry smiled happily before turning to his own plate and digging in.

They ate in companionable silence, both lost in thought, before they were interrupted by a friendly voice sounding from behind them. "Good day, Tom, I am glad to see you are showing Harry where _not_ to sit."

Both boys' heads snapped around quickly, Harry's jaw going slack at the sight of the man standing there. It was Dumbledore! But he looked so different! His long, silvery beard that he used to have tucked into his belt was much shorter, and auburn coloured, just like the rest of his long, wavy hair. All the wrinkles were gone and his long nose looked less crocked somehow. He also seemed taller than before, which could have to do with how age made people hunch together, and sometimes actually shrink minimally. He wore a light blue robe with petite, white, twinkling stars spread all over it – a garment Harry had never seen on the wizard before.

Something that, to Harry's delight, hadn't changed was the merry twinkle in his light blue eyes, which were covered behind his characteristic half-moon glasses. Dumbledore smiled brightly as he shook Harry's hand and introduced himself.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore-"

"Yes, I know! We've met several times before, Professor," Harry said, making the man lift his eyebrows in intrigue.

"How fascinating time travelling is," he said before continuing. "I am the transfiguration teacher and also your head of house, Harry. Armando suggested a short trip to Diagon Alley, to buy you some much needed school supplies."

"Armando? Oh, Professor Dippet?" Harry said, feeling his stomach clench in apprehension. "But, I don't have any money, sir."

"No, I don't suppose you would! I heard you came through with only your wand and a quill in hand... Well imagine that... There is no need for worry, Harry, Hogwarts has a special fund for occasions such as this," Dumbledore said, pulling out a small, leather pouch out of his inner pocket and handing it over to the slack jawed boy.

Harry could feel Tom stiffen as the exchange was made and silently wondered why such a simple thing would bother him. Then, Dumbledore started walking towards the grand doors of the great hall, obviously expecting Harry to follow, and so he did, calling "See you later, Tom!" behind him as he went.

He followed the wizard out of the grand gates of Hogwarts and onto the road leading to the small village Hogsmeade, a 15 minute walk away. Dumbledore strutted calmly, hands behind his back, humming a jolly melody Harry didn't recognize. Seeing the man was in his usual good mood he took a deep breath and asked a question that had been nagging at him ever since he found out he'd travelled through time.

"Professor Dumbledore, I was wondering – Professor Dippet said he didn't know if there was a way for me to return to the future... and I was thinking, you being brilliant and all, maybe knew how to do it."

"You flatter me, Harry," the professor said, smiling sadly, "but I'm afraid I cannot help you. You see, time travelling is a very peculiar business. There have been very few examples of travelling before, but it turned out all of those unfortunate enough to have a mishap came from the future. It seems time is linear, which means, you can only move backwards. There will always be a set-in-stone _past, _but once you've moved backwards there is no way to move back forwards, because there simply is nothing _there_ for you to go back to. The future you come from no longer exists, and therefore you simply _can't _go back. You have, in a way, tricked time itself! Although you were born in 1980, your body and soul are anchored in this time-line now, and it will now appear as if you were instead born in 1927. This means, I'm afraid, the only way you can move forwards is by living."

Harry felt the last of his very slim hopes leave his body. When even the one person he had believed to be able to solve just about anything couldn't help, it surely must be a hopeless case. He sighed resignedly and kicked a few of the bigger stones in front of his feet away towards the forest. "I see" he mumbled. "So, there's no hope then..."

Dumbledore stopped and turned to face him, a solemn expression on his youthful face. "I regret this must happen to you, Harry, but it is essential you understand the life you once had is but a dream and can never become anything else." He leaned down and put a comforting hand to rest on Harry's bony shoulder, his light blue gaze searching the green one out. "It does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live! Remember that," he said and Harry smiled sadly.

"Yes, you've already told me."

"Have I?" Dumbledore asked brightly, the spark back in his eyes. "It is a good lesson Auntie Bathilda taught me when I was young... Yes, she's certainly something extra, that one..." Dumbledore seemed lost in memories for a few moments before regaining his senses, once again searching Harry's eyes out.

"You see, Harry, I believe you have something many a wizard would be greatly envious of, had they known. _A purpose_! Something that _only you_ can do."

Harry brightened up and looked at his professor expectantly. "You have the power to _change things_! To know what's coming beforehand and change it for the better. But while this is a great power it come at a price, for above all else, there is one thing you _must not allow_ to come to pass."

The wizard straightened up, a contemplating look on his face as he picked up on the walk towards the village. "How should I word this?" he murmured and went silent for a few moments. Harry felt anxiety claw at his stomach, wondering how much he would be able to take before he finally broke down completely.

"You see, Harry, the means by which you ended up here, is at the moment an ordinary diary. But, it is evident it will, or would, not always have stayed that way. One day Tom would turn it into something else entirely, the nature of which I can only guess, and it would enable you to travel through time. I believe the fact that this diary has not yet been made into a means of transport is what is keeping you in this world, Harry, it is the anchor holding you fast. Were it to be turned into something else you would lose the one thing holding you here, to be thrown back into a future that does not exist... Well, you can imagine the disaster! Which is why you can _never_ let that happen! You must stop Tom at any cost!"

Harry once again felt the loneliness creep under his skin as he realized the first thing he would have to do to his newly made friend was to betray him. He would have to steal the diary he'd just sworn never to touch again.

* * *

It felt weird being back in Diagon Alley so soon, and to be there to buy _everything_ he'd ever needed at Hogwarts again. It was as Dumbledore had said – he'd fallen through the diary with only wand and quill in hand, and the latter he'd thrown away on the fifth corridor before drawing his wand on Tom. He also had the school uniform he wore on his body, but he wouldn't get far with only one set – hence, they would have a long day of shopping ahead of them.

It didn't seem to faze his head of house, though: Dumbledore was his usual cheery self. It rather seemed he got exited at the notion of spending the entire day in shops. Harry soon found out why as they stepped into the old robe-shop _Twilfit and Tattings_ and his professor immediately left him to his own devices as he started searching through the racks of robes, holding a bright yellow one up into the light to see it better. Dumbledore had quite obviously seen this as a perfect opportunity to do some pleasure shopping of his own.

The time flew passed and Harry found that he enjoyed his old professor's company. Dumbledore seemed to be the last person still existing from his previous life – a short life-line keeping the desperate distress at bay. He also hadn't ever spent this much time with his professor before and found it exciting this mighty wizard would find it enjoyable being on a shopping trip with him of all people.

To Harry's confusion, once they'd made it out if Hogwarts' grounds Dumbledore had continued his track towards a shabby old bar at the outskirts of the village. As he asked why, the wizard had simply winked at him, telling him they needed a fireplace to be able to floo. Apparently, they wouldn't be able to apparate because of the impossibility of staying a secret from the crowded muggle London if they suddenly appeared out of thin air with a loud crack. It made sense, Harry thought, but still asked Dumbledore why they didn't just apparate directly into Diagon Alley and found out that, just like at Hogwarts, there were anti-apparition wards protecting the alley, making sure it could only be accessed by means of flooing, walking or flying. Harry marvelled at this as they trekked down the slim cobblestone street, lined with one interesting shop after the other.

The clock was nearly five when they were finally done and flooed back into the musty room in the not so charming bar_ Hog's Head Inn_. Harry was feeling a bit sick from the ride and could swear that, at one particularly steep turn, he'd nearly gotten stuck in the chimney. Thankful that hadn't happened he hurried out of the bar and found, to his great relief, a wagon standing there waiting patiently for them. Tired of walking he hurried to take a seat and looked on in wonder as Dumbledore decided to stand at the front of the carriage, patting thin air and speaking lightly to... well, _nothing_! He'd apparently always been a bit weird, dear old Dumbledore, Harry thought with a fond smile.

The wagon took them to the front gates of the school in no time at all, and just as they were stepping out of it an owl swept down from one of the towers and sat itself onto Harry's shoulder. Picking up the short note it carried, the owl flying off his shoulder towards the Owlery, Harry frowned lightly. "It just says I'm to meet _them_ in the west wing reception room..."

"Does it?" Dumbledore said innocently, "I'll take you there myself, then," and marched into the grand castle ahead of him, telling Harry to leave his trunk behind as he made to take it with him. The wizard led him into the entrance hall and, instead of turning right into the great hall or walking up the stairs towards the stairwell, he turned left into a corridor Harry had never entered before but which couldn't have been anything else than "the west wing". As they walked down the window lined corridor Harry saw the other side of the wall was lined with _a lot_ of doors. "What's in there?" he asked curiously.

"Those are guest rooms," Dumbledore said, still smiling secretly. They came to a halt in front of a dead end, the only thing in sight a big rug with the motif of a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake, hanging on the wall. The professor caressed it lovingly, a soft expression in his eyes, before it _purred_ contently and rolled itself up, revealing an arched entrance into a brightly lit room. Dumbledore carefully pushed Harry inside before grasping the string hanging from the rug and pulling it downwards again. Still a bit mystified, Harry turned around and realized he wasn't alone. Sitting around the round table in the middle of the bright room sat no less than nine people, quite obviously waiting for him.

Fat tears started streaming down his cheeks as he realized where he'd seen the lot of them before – in the mirror of Erised! This was his _family_! His deepest, most desperate wish had _come true_!

Seeing his tears one of the women jumped up from her seat, exclaiming a heart-felt "Oh, my sweet child!" and engulfed him an a warm embrace that made it impossible for him to hold in his misery any longer, and he wept. Desperately clinging to the warm body holding him close. He wasn't alone!

When Harry had calmed down a bit the Potters started introducing themselves. The woman who had comforted him was a black haired, chubby witch by the name Nicole. Her husband, a clever looking wizard in square glasses, named Walter, shook Harry's hand and pushed his son, Harold, forwards to do the same. Recognizing the name from reading it in Tom's diary, and seeing a mischievous spark in his dark blue eyes, Harry understood this was a boy who liked a good laugh.

Next was a family of four, where the blonde, stern looking mother quite obviously was older than her cheerful, curly haired husband. The woman introduced herself as Katherine Potter, and the man was named Leonard. Their oldest child, Charlus, shook his hand shortly and regarded him with a serious, contemplating expression on his handsome face. Next a very short, curly haired witch flung herself at Harry and hugged him fiercely. "And I'm Lora, Harry! It's good to meet you!" Harry got an odd flashback to the day before when he'd been held close by Hermione, before pushing it away firmly, returning Lora's embrace.

Next the two oldest introduced themselves as Arabella and _James_ Potter, Walter and Leonard's parents. He met the dark blue gaze of the old man his father had, or would, or would have, been named after and found great joy in realizing this was the man he'd seen in the mirror who had shared his wobbly knees.

The lot of them returned to the table, Harry sitting in between the older Potter brothers, their families fanning out behind them for Harry to find himself seated opposite to the very short and frail looking Arabella, who studied his face with a contemplating expression.

There was a pregnant pause as none of them seemed to know where to start – then, Arabella seemed to come to some sort of conclusion and exclaimed "He looks just like you, James, the poor child!", efficiently breaking the ice. Harold burst into loud grunts of laughter, the brothers surrounding Harry shouted out "Mother!" at the exact same time and James looked outraged. The only one seemingly unsurprised was the stern, half-smirking Katherine.

"That may be so," James said in a voice shaky of age, "but that is certainly nothing to call him poor for. No, handsome, that's what he is... and so was I back in the days," he said and winked mischievously at his great-great-grandson.

"So, I see you're in Gryffindor, Harry," Charlus said, smiling warmly at him.

"That's a good lad," Nicole said warmly, casting a meaning look at her son, "you keep a good look out for him, young man, it's time you show some responsibility. You see, Harry, Harold and his cousins are all in Gryffindor as well, they'll take care of you."

"Oh yeah, I'll take good care of him," Harold said with a wide grin, "he looks like the kind who likes a little adventure in his life-"

"Don't you dare get him into trouble, young man," Nicole exclaimed hotly. "If I ever find out you've done _anything_-"

"Oh, calm down sweetheart," Walter said, taking his wife's hand in a reassuring grip. "You know we can trust our kids not to do anything _all_ too outrageous. Besides, what's wrong a little mischief every now and then?"

"What year are you in?" Lora asked him as Nicole started telling her husband _exactly_ what was wrong with seeking out trouble on the other side of the table.

"Second," Harry said, a fluffy feeling building up in his scarred chest.

"Me too!" Lora exclaimed excitedly, almost jumping up and down in her seat in joy. "Harold's in his fifth and my _brother dearest_ is in his seventh. And he's head boy as well! He's so proud I think his head's going to burst soon from its swelling-"

"My head's _not swelling_!" Charlus cried out while Harold snickered mockingly, Leonard patting his son's head patronizingly – then looking confusedly at his palm.

"Huh, I think she's right, it definitely feels bigger-" and a new round of bickering started as the one on the other end of the table ended and Walter asked the next question.

"I heard you were born in 1980, Harry – I suppose that would mean none of these firecrackers are your direct parents, but perhaps grandparents?"

"I don't know," Harry confessed. "I never met my grandparents..."

"But surely, your parents must have spoken of them?" Katherine said, making it sound like a statement rather than a question.

"No... My parents were killed when I was one year old... I grew up with my muggle relatives in Surrey..."

The table went very quiet.

The silence was once again broken by Arabella, who sharply snapped out "_Killed_? Killed by whom?" with a demanding look in her blue, almost-white eyes.

"Voldemort," Harry said simply, "he called himself _the Dark Lord_, although, almost no-one except his followers called him that, and barely anyone dared speak his true name. Most just said you-know-who, or He-who-must-not-be-named."

"But you do! You call him Voldemort!" Harold exclaimed, a hungry look in his eyes.

"Dumbledore once told me that 'fear of a name increases the fear of the thing itself', and asked me to call him by his true name."

"Clever man, Dumbledore," James hummed and Katherine shook her head slowly. "But, what happened?" she demanded.

"To my parents, you mean? We were hiding, but Voldemort found us, and he killed my dad – James Potter. And then, he went upstairs to seek me out. And when he found me, he told mum to step aside, but she wouldn't, so he killed her too. And then, he turned his wand on me and... well, it backfired! The spell bounced off of me and returned onto him, and he disappeared!"

"You mean, he died?" Lora asked, wide eyed.

"No, he just vanished... he couldn't die somehow..."

"But, son, how did _you_ not die?" Katherine asked in intrigue.

"Because of his mother's sacrifice, lass, don't you listen?" Arabella snapped out before returning her milky gaze to the boy in front of her. "That's how you got that scar, isn't it?"

Harry simply nodded, stunned by the old woman's intellect, and Charlus' eyes snapped onto his forehead as he demanded, "What scar?" in a sharp voice. Harry lifted his fringe and saw how all except the mysteriously knowledgeable woman opposite of him stared in awe at the fire-bolt shaped wound.

"As intriguing as your life up till now seems, it's also a lot... _Too much_ for a young boy such as you to take on by himself," Walter said in a strained voice.

"All the more reason for him to have a proper family to look after him," Nicole said in a voice thick of emotion.

"You said you know nothing of your grandparents, Harry, who they were?" Leonard asked softly and Harry just shook his head in the negative.

"Well, there's an easy way to determine that," James said, smirking lightly before putting his wrinkly hand to his mouth to stage-whisper, "Do you have it?".

"Have what?" Harry deadpanned.

"He means _the cloak_!" Harold explained excitedly. "Do you have it, the Cloak of Invisibility?"

"Well... yes. I mean, no, not any more! But I did..." Harry trailed off as Walter's features stretched into a smile, making him resemble the cat that got the cream. Leonard, on the other hand looked disappointed, and Harold let out a loudly yelled, "Welcome to the family, little Brother!" He felt stupid, as if he was missing something obtrusively obvious.

"How do you know of the cloak?" he asked wearily. "I thought it was my dad's..."

"It was!" Harold exclaimed excitedly. "It runs in the family! I have it now, I got it from Dad, who got it from Grandpa James, who got it from his dad, and so on! It means I must have given it to _my_ son – James you said? – who in his turn left it for you!"

Harry didn't really know what to say, he just sat stunned, nodding to show he understood. He'd never known! Well, it wasn't like he'd had anyone to ask...

"That means you'll come live with us, son, if you want to that is," Walter said calmly and Nicole smiled brightly at him, her cheeks flushing in excitement.

"Oh, you'll love it, Harry, we live in a cosy little cottage in a village called Godric's Hollow. Not far from James and Bella, actually! Although it's small it's not at all shabby, you'll see. Oh, and the _garden _is simply stunning. We all have our own rooms, of course. There's even a spare room for you! I've been using it for storing my spare fabrics and my yarn, although I _do_ have a proper sewing room as well-"

"Mum," Harold whined, "you don't have to tell him _everything_! He'll see it when he sees it!"

"Of course, you can come visit us in Little Hangleton as well, Harry. At any time you want! It's just a floo-call away after all," Leonard said warmly, patting his shoulder softly. All Harry could do was nod again and whisper a soft "Thank you" through the thickness in his throat. He had a home!

* * *

How this day had turned out to be the best and the worst day of his entire life on the very same time was... odd. Almost suspiciously so, in fact, Harry decided, thinking back to all the good and bad days he'd had before. Granted, he was a magnet attracting danger and adventure, but this was simply blown out of proportion. But as odd as it was, he didn't think he'd ever been this happy before, regardless of what he'd lost at the same time.

So it was with a joyous expression he sat at the Gryffindor table later that evening, enjoying dinner with his _brother_ and his two _cousins_. Harold, as he'd noticed as early as the first few seconds of meeting him, was a charismatic boy with a charming smile and a certain knack for mischief. No doubt he got good use for the Invisibility Cloak judging by all the wacky stories of adventures he re-told, to Harry's amusement and the others' complaining.

Charlus was a tall, handsome guy who took life much more seriously than his cousin, although, he was _nowhere near _as stern as Ron's brother Percy had been. His sister, Lora, on the other hand was just as fiery and adventurous as Harold, and used to sneak out after curfew to try and find the entrance to the kitchens where she hoped to find a sea of house-elves just waiting to serve her whatever she wanted. So far, she'd been utterly unsuccessful, but she _refused_ to give up despite her constant failure.

Harry could feel eyes on him through the entire dinner and first thought it was curious classmates casting glances at the _new kid_. As he looked over at the Slytherin table, however, he saw it was in fact Tom sitting staring at him. He looked... well, worried. But right on cue as he noticed Harry looked back at him the wall of indifference fell down over his features. He then looked away completely, took a last bit out of one of the meatballs on his barely touched plate and arose to leave.

Seeing this Harry hurried to finish as well and excused himself to his new family. "But, don't you want us to show you to your dorm next?" Harold asked confusedly, but Harry shook his head rapidly.

"Thank you, but there's someone I need to talk to first! Don't worry, I'll manage – see you!" And then he hurried after the retreating form of his Slytherin friend. He caught up with him just as he was about to slip down a steep staircase down into the dungeons.

"Tom, wait!" he called out and the other whipped around immediately, a slight widening to his eyes.

"Oh, it's you," he said in perfect indifference. Harry smiled widely at him, taking out a sheet of parchment from his robe pocket.

"Yeah, I didn't think I'd catch you at first. You're fast! Look, I brought my timetable so we can match out classes and see which ones we have together."

Tom, with a disbelieving look on his face, didn't seem to know what to say. He just looked at Harry like he'd never seen him before. "You want to match timetables? With _me_?" he said, sounding a bit suspicious, Harry noticed. "But, what about... I thought you looked happy and all what with the other Potters back there..."

"Oh, I am," Harry smiled brilliantly. "Very happy! But I already have a best friend, and that's you, remember? Now, about that timetable. Tomorrow's Thursday – that means I have Transfiguration first and then-"

"No," Tom interrupted, looking at Harry in uncertainty for a couple of heartbeats before seemingly coming to some sort of decision and regained his Slytherinish half-smirking mask. "Maybe it would be in 1992, but right _now_ it's Saturday, which means there will be no classes tomorrow."

"Really?" Harry said in excitement. "That's brilliant! Then, lets meet up right after breakfast tomorrow, right?"

"I suppose we could do that if you feel we _really_ need to," Tom said in a drawling, but obviously teasing, tone.

"Good! I'll see you tomorrow, then," Harry said, waiving shortly as he turned to walk up to the Gryffindor tower to search out his dormitory. He stopped at Tom's call.

"Harry, wait... you're going already?"

"Well, yeah, curfew's in barely an hour after all," Harry said with a smile at how Tom held him back while trying to seem all indifferent about it.

"That may be so but... we could always go to the Slytherdor room, then we could stay up a bit longer and... and look at the timetables, like you wanted."

Harry frowned in confusion. "The Slyther-what?"

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so much for all the support and subscribing alerts I've gotten in the last few days! It feels so good this whack story is appreciated. For those of you interested, I've uploaded the Potter family tree I created when plotting the story. _

_You find it here: dl. dropbox (dot com slash) u/92960130/Potter%20%28CoG% 29. png  
_

_Mischief managed! _


	4. Show Me How to be Whole Again

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Four

_Show Me How to Be Whole Again_

* * *

Harry stopped on the threshold to the Slytherdor room once they'd stepped through the seemingly random wooden door on the fourth floor. It was big and bright, but dark at the same time. Large windows lit the room up, but black, satin hangings darkened it back down. The interior was made entirely out of stone and no paint or paintings coloured the walls. Even the floor was in the lead grey colour material and the two fireplaces lining the wall opposite to the windows were also made out of stone. On the other side of the room there was an elevated platform, looking to Harry like a sort of stage. Before it stood groups of black leather armchairs surrounding little coffee tables, also made out of stone. On the floor laid lots and lots of Persian rugs in gold, silver, black and white. Harry thought the room was surprisingly vapid; that was until he saw the ceiling. It was filled to the rim with colourful ceiling paintings, depicting hundreds of famous witches and wizards varying from historical ones, such as Merlin, to more recent ones, like Newton Scamander. The little figures moved around, as per usual in wizards' paintings, and chatted to one another in hushed voices that barely reached down to ground level.

As Harry finally stepped through the door and turned around he noticed there actually _were_ paintings hanging on the wall as well. On either side of the door were two paintings of equal size hanging at floor level. The one to the left portrayed a big, golden lion lying lazily in the middle of a sparkling hot desert. The other one was of a sleek, silver snake sunbathing on a black stone close to the water edge of a grand lake fanning out in the background. Judging by what Tom had told him of the room on their way there, these must be the passages connecting the Slytherdor room with the common rooms of Slytherin and Gryffindor.

Although the room was big and looked comfortable enough there weren't that many students in it. Only a handful spread out sparsely around the low coffee tables, leaving lots of them free to pick and choose from. Tom walked ahead and chose to sit down in front of one of the grand fireplaces, and Harry followed him, slumping down into the armchair to the right as his friend picked the other one.

"So, this room is connected to Slytherin and Gryffindor, you say. Does that mean there are rooms for the other houses as well?" He hadn't believed it at first, having heard nothing of the sort in his one year at Hogwarts. Never mind that he hadn't had any friends in other houses to use the rooms with – had this kind of room existed in his time, he'd have heard about it, no doubt.

"Naturally," Tom said, smiling softly in the light of the flames, looking relaxed. "There's six of them, everyone related to two of the houses in turn. And just like in this one, there's a secret passage so that you can get to and from the rooms without breaking curfew. This room is the one which is used the least, I believe, although the Slytherpuff room isn't that popular either."

"What are they like? Can you tell me?" Harry said in intrigue, but Tom just smiled and shrugged apologetically.

"It's easier if I just show you. Let's do that tomorrow, after breakfast. If you still want to meet up tomorrow, that is?"

"Yeah, sure! Sounds good," Harry said happily, looking around the room again, finding it to be quite spectacular. He could bet the stage would work really well as an arena for wizard's duelling. "Won't the teachers mind if we're here after curfew?" he asked, thinking of casting spells outside of class.

"These rooms were created by the founders, after Slytherin had left Hogwarts that is, to encourage unity and friendship between the houses. They made them into extensions of the common rooms to make it easier for the students of different houses to socialize later at night since they couldn't spend time together in the great hall or in the dormitories, for example. There have, however, been teachers before who thought these rooms made it harder for the students to concentrate on more important things, such as studying and sleeping, and decided to interfere with what happened in them. That was why a poltergeist was summoned to guard the rooms and make sure the students went undisturbed. Since then Peeves has been floating around the castle, making the teachers' lives into living hells, but the students are safe as long as they don't socialize too much with the adults."

Harry felt his jaw go slack as Tom finished his lecturing. _Peeves_? The same Peeves who floated about in the Hogwarts he was used to and pulled pranks on anyone unlucky enough to catch his notice?

"Are you sure you mean Peeves? But he's..." Harry didn't really know what to say. The thought of the whacky poltergeist ever having any form of _purpose_ was mind-bugging! "Well, he's crazy! How did they ever manage to make him _do_ anything properly?"

"He's not that bad," Tom smirked at Harry's discomfort. "But I suppose if it is as you say and the rooms cease to exist at one point he would be left without a task and therefore become bored. Then I would understand why you would have that impression of him."

"How do you know all this?" Harry asked in amazement. As far as Harry could tell, Tom was as much a walking encyclopedia as Hermione had been, although he had a certain feeling all the facts his new friend carried around didn't come exclusively from books.

"I hear things," Tom said with a secretive smile and Harry leaned in closer to listen closely. "Sometimes, it can be teachers talking carelessly from behind a corner, sometimes they leave notes on their desks unattended. In this instance, however, I heard it from a ghost – the Bloody Baron!"

"The Bloody Baron!" Harry said in admiration of Tom's bravery. He had seen the ghost before but had never dared to get close to him because of the fearsome apparition he made.

Tom in his turn sat in silence for a moment, studying Harry's features closely as the fire crackled merrily. "How did you get that scar?" he decided to ask. The Gryffindor didn't hesitate to retail the same story he'd told the Potters earlier that day and studied Tom's contemplating face as he sat waiting afterwards for the inevitable questions that always followed: Did Voldemort die? Why didn't he die? What happened afterwards?

"You said he went upstairs to search you out, as in you specifically? Why?"

Harry was startled by the abrupt unexpected question but soon regained his composure. "Oh, well... I don't know, actually. I asked Dumbledore once but... All he said was that he'd tell me once I was ready. Now, I guess I'll never know..."

"Dumbledore knew but didn't tell you?" Tom said with a sneer. "How about Voldemort, did you meet him again? You said he vanished, clearly indicating he didn't really die..." There was a politeness to his tone, but you could spot a slimmer of something looking like _hunger_ in the deep green eyes of his friend as he asked about the man who had killed Harry's parents.

"I did," Harry said hesitantly. "Almost three months ago... He was leeching onto one of my professors, his face sticking out from the backside of Quirrell's head. It was... horrible," even thinking of it made him sick to his stomach.

"He didn't tell you, either?" Tom demanded hungrily.

"About why? No, no he didn't. He just wanted to kill me. But he failed again, Quirrell couldn't touch me without feeling pain. He got these huge boils... And then, he died and Voldemort disappeared again."

"Just by touching you?" Tom asked in confusion. "How is that possible?"

"Dumbledore said it was because of my mother's sacrifice... Her love for me so strong it stuck to my skin. Quirrell was so full of hatred and... well, evil, sharing a body with Voldemort, he couldn't bear to touch something so pure as Mum's love... Or something like that."

"_Love_ can do that?" Tom asked with a disgusted grimace and Harry laughed brightly at their shared view on the matter. "Your mother, who was she?"

"Her name was Lily Evans, before she married Dad that is, and she was a Muggleborn witch. I grew up with her Muggle sister, but she didn't like talking of Mum or their parents for some reason... But I just recently found out they grew up in the muggle town Cokeworth and that Mum was friends with a wizard boy named Severus Snape – he was head of Slytherin house in my time..."

Harry trailed off at the thought of his professor and once again felt the misery creep up on him at the thought of never seeing him again. For there was one thing Harry had promised himself once he found out he was here to _change things_. He had to find Eileen and make sure she never married Tobias Snape. He would have to make sure Severus was spared from growing up with that abusive man for a father. And therefore, the man he'd come to admire would never get born. Not as Harry remembered him, at least.

"What did she look like?" Tom asked abruptly and Harry was startled out of his musings.

"...She was fair, with long red hair and green eyes. People always tell me I have her eyes."

"Green, you say," Tom said, licking his suddenly dry lips in a sweeping motion. "What year was she born?"

"1960... Tom, why are you asking this?" Admittedly, he felt glad, if not proud, speaking of the woman that had loved him so much she sacrificed her own life for him, but it was strange that of all the things Tom could ask about the future, he decided to interest himself with Harry's _mother_.

At Harry's suspicious question Tom straightened up, the glow in his eyes disappearing, being replaced by a deep sadness. "I never knew my mother..." he whispered and Harry felt his heart clench in compassion for the frail looking boy next to him. "... or my father. I grew up in a Muggle orphanage and no-one came for me. I don't know if there is someone out there but... It's just, families interest me, you know, I've always wanted one for myself..."

Of course he'd known they were alike ever since he'd first laid eyes on the dark eyed boy, but _this_ was just astonishing. They not only had similar background – they also had similar wishes! Only, Harry already had had his come true. As for Tom...

"I'll help you!" he said, looking his friend deep in the eyes in honesty. "If your parents are out there, we'll find them. Together!"

Tom regained some of the spark in his eyes before his face morphed back into an indifferent one and he simply shrugged, murmuring "If you feel you _really_ need to," non-committally. Harry just smiled fondly at the boy he liked more and more as the seconds ticked passed. Speaking of ticking, Tom was looking on a worn wristwatch he carried on his right arm and declared they should get back to their dorms, it was late. Harry then felt really stupid as he realized: "You need to have the password to get through the paintings, don't you?". Tom politely pointed him to a group of Gryffindor boys who were just about to walk out the portrait, Harry sprinting out of the armchair with a quick "Good night!" to his friend.

Had he turned around then, he would have seen all the softness and innocence slip off of Tom's face, being replaced by a cold, self-satisfied smirk as he watched his latest play-thing hurry out of his sight, completely fooled.

* * *

Harry followed the group of older Gryffindor boys up the steep stairs, memorizing the password "scant scribbles" carefully. The lion passage led into a dark corridor that quickly turned into curling staircases, winning height quickly, before turning back into a slim windowless corridor ending with the back of another painting. Stepping through Harry found himself in a room that he'd actually been in before – only, he hadn't had a clue what the paintings were for! He'd just figured the circular space at the bottom of the stairwell was just an ordinary storage room with nothing other than three paintings in it.

But now he realized the painting he'd come out of, portraying a snake, must lead to the Slytherdor room, the one of a badger to the Gryffinpuff room and the one with an eagle to the Gryffinclaw room. Who would have thought?

Harry continued up the stairs till he came to the wooden door which had a golden sign reading "2nd year boys" on it. He instantly felt at home once he'd stepped inside. It almost felt like he was back in his own time since nothing much had changed. There were the same kind of four poster beds with satin hangings, the same circular tower-room with high arched windows, the same ruby coloured wallpapers on the walls. All the same – if not for the three unfamiliar faces turning to him as the door closed with a soft click.

The boy closest to the door had a scrawny, big-eyed face, reminding Harry of a hare. The likeness to the animal was enhanced by his brown hair and matching brown eyes, as well as his startled expression as he caught sight of Harry.

Behind him stood two wheat blonde boys with identical blue eyes, identical plump body shapes and identical grins on their lips. They couldn't be anything else than twins!

"There's they mystery guy!" one of them exclaimed and rushed forwards to excitedly shake hands. Harry greeted him politely with a short "Harry Potter".

"Ignatius Prewett," the other said, "though most call me Ignis. That's Lamb over there and the other one, although it might seem impossible, is my _dear_ brother Isidorus."

"You can call me Icy," the other one grinned and there was a miserable groan from behind them.

"Go ahead, ask him why, he won't stop bothering you until you do..." the brown haired boy grunt out.

"Why?" Harry asked in good humour.

"Because Ignis means fire in Latin. See, we're fire and ice! Clever, huh?"

"I've never met its like," Harry said in playful sarcasm and shook hands with the one Ignatius had called Lamb.

"Lambert Linwood," he introduced and sent a mean look to the grinning twins behind them, "please, _please_, would you call me Bert?"

"Nah, you know," Harry said teasingly, "I think I like Lamb better – its cute!"

The brunette immediately started complaining wildly, the twins evidently driving him mad with all the teasing they put the poor boy through. Harry could see they deep down liked each other, even if they definitely did not show it, but evidently preferred bickering before getting along.

"So, you're a Potter?" Lambert suddenly said, trying and divert the attention from off himself, throwing it with all his might at Harry.

"Yeah, I'm the future grandchild of Harold Potter," he explained.

"Wicked!" the twins breathed out and Lambert smiled widely.

"Really? That means we're... Err, must be like... I think, second cousins twice removed... or something – Harold's my second cousin you see... My grandpa's siblings with his gran – Arabella Linwood – or, Potter now I guess. But it's a bit complicated with you being his grandson and all..."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "I reckon it'd be easier did we just say we're second cousins, since Harold calls me his brother now anyway..."

"Oh, really? That's great!" Lambert smiled, before frowning deeply. "You know, these wizarding families and they all being related to each other makes everything so complicated. Bring on the Muggleborns, I say!"

"So, how's the future?" Isidorus asked excitedly.

They soon went to bed, Harry with a big smile on his lips, utterly pleased with his long, long day. Waking up, however, was a different story altogether. He'd had horrible dreams of Snape accusing him of destroying his life, of Ron and Hermione laughing together while he watched in silence, of his father as a baby, crying and trying to get free as he was held by his son, and of Tom holding out his diary to him with a friendly expression on his face, turning into a betrayed one as Harry made to take it from him.

When he woke up he still had the dreams in fresh memory and dreaded what he'd eventually have to do to Tom. It made him feel disgusting, as if he was covered from head to toe in Fluffy-drool, and thought for a wild second that no-one should get close to him because of it. Then he woke up fully and pushed the guilt-ridden thoughts away, getting up to get dressed.

He followed his dorm mates downstairs to the great hall to sit down for breakfast. They were soon joined by Lora, who seemed to have a half-friendly, half-teasing friendship with the Prewett twins but couldn't seem to stand Lambert for some unknown reason. Harry soon caught sight of Tom and kept eye-contact as he arose, signing with a wild arm-gesture the Slytherin should meet him outside. He took his merry time, but about a minute later he sauntered out with a soft smile on his lips.

They had five rooms to visit, having already been in the sixth the night before, and decided to make way to the one furthest down in the castle, gradually moving their way upwards. Hence, they walked down the stairs leading to the dark dungeons where one would find the Slytherpuff room.

Walking through a just as random-seeming wooden door as the one hiding away the Slytherdor room on the forth floor, Harry found himself in a narrow, but deep dining hall. The only things in the room a long wooden table with high-backed chairs on each side and three big chandeliers hanging low in the arched, cathedral like ceiling. Also – a grand, gold-rimmed mirror on the short wall opposite of the door with the two paintings on each side – depicting the silver snake on the black stone and the same badger lounging in his earth-walled burrow as Harry had seen on the bottom of the Gryffindor stairwell.

"This is it?" Harry asked, comparing it to the other room and the grand space it had created, with a big stage in the corner none the less. Tom just smiled secretly and went to the end of the long, narrow room, stopping with his back to the mirror. And then, with one big step backwards, he'd stepped through it!

Harry hurried to follow him and found himself in the very same room, only it was completely bare! Only the three chandeliers and the mirror still in place. Seeing his friend's confused expression, Tom hurried to explain:

"They usually use the Slytherpuff room for celebrating birthdays, finished exams or won Quidditch-matches. This hidden room is used for dancing, mostly, while the other one takes care of the dinner part of the partying. That's why people usually don't hang around here on an everyday basis. It's similar to the Slytherdor room, actually, which is sometimes used by the two duelling clubs in school when they feel like having a tournament, but mostly stands empty."

"There's duelling clubs?" Harry asked excitedly. "I knew there were a chess club, a music club, the Quidditch teams and such, but..."

Tom just smirked and shook his head shortly. "I'm not surprised you haven't heard of them – if they even existed in your time. They're not exactly official... and they only let the older year kids in any way. The Patronus Patrol, or PP for short, consists of mainly Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors who want to get better at defending themselves, and they only allow members from forth year and upwards. The Deviant Squad however was formed by Slytherins, although about half of them are Gryffindors by now, and they're more prone to attack rather than build up their defence._ They_ are even worse and only allow members who have taken their OWL exams, ergo – only sixth and seventh year students."

Harry's head soon started to spin by all the information Tom force-fed him as they toured the co-house rooms. The next one they visited was the Ravenpuff room located on ground floor, its entrance the only door on the window side of the corridor in the west wing, the one Harry had been led through when about to meet his family.

The Ravenpuff room was squarely formed, consisting of an open corridor surrounding a lush courtyard with a grand oak three in the middle, standing proudly under a dark star filled sky – although it was the middle of the day. The room seemed to be popular with the Ravenclaw students, who were spread out under the oak tree, reading and chatting in groups. Tom explained that many came here to do their Astronomy homework since the ceiling was crafted similarly to the one in the great hall – resembling a clear open sky when in reality it wasn't. The main difference was that this ceiling only showed the night sky, never clouded and never brightened. It was especially practical in the summer when it took so long for the night to fall that you'd have to stay up well past curfew to finish your star chart homework.

Next on the list was the Gryffinpuff room on the first floor, right next to the girl's lavatory where Harry and Ron had saved Hermione from a rogue mountain troll the year before... No, in 1991 Harry reminded himself. It was a huge room in yellow, purple and pink with plush stools surrounding a lot of round tables. It was with a start Harry realized it was a sort of cafeteria with a big round table in the middle of the room where you could pick and choose from a variety of sandwiches, pies and biscuits. Floating around the room, refilling empty cups on their own, were one coffee pot, one teapot and one pot filled with _and _made out of hot chocolate milk.

Harry was further startled as he caught sight of Peeves for the first time since finding out about his real purpose. He was floating over a group of plump Ravenclaws, teasing them for eating too much cake and clearly showing with rude gestures what would happen to their bodies if they continued their gluttonous acts.

"Hey, you said he was alright!" Harry exclaimed, piercing Tom with an accusing look.

Tom smirked naughtily as response. "I didn't say he was _nice_! Besides, he's right you know – those kids are _fat_! They should eat much, much less! _You_ on the other hand..."

And with that comment Tom dragged him to the middle table, dictating they should have lunch there instead of in the great hall, so they could eat together for once. Harry easily complied and they spent about an hour in the very comfortable room, Tom engaging him in a discussion about Voldemort and what he actually tried to accomplish. Harry was of the impression the monster of a man only aimed to cause terror and disaster. His friend wouldn't buy it, however, and spent long moments pressing Harry on the snippets of information he'd learned about the killer in his one year of magic-life. They eventually got stuck on the blood-purity argument and felt they wouldn't get much further, hence decided to pick up on their room-touring.

Next stop was the Slytherclaw room on the third floor, its entrance in the middle of the library. Harry recognized it as a room which had always been mysteriously locked in his time and clearly remembered Hermione complaining about it, finding it outrageous for there to be one part – aside from the restricted section – which she could not use freely. Hence, he imagined the room to be filled up with stacks and stacks of books. As he stepped through the threshold, however, he was surprised to find the room to be completely empty of books but full of empty bookshelves. In the middle of the room, under a grand indoor balcony with a spiral staircase leading up to it, stood comfortable sofas in dark green, a nice contrast to the stiff wooden chairs and tables the library housed.

Tom explained the bookshelves worked as a sort of portal for the library books. If one wanted to spend time working after curfew, one could easily do it in here – were they a Ravenclaw or a Slytherin that was – and simply put the books back in the empty shelves afterwards. The books would return to their proper shelves in the library on their own after that.

Not really mourning the fact he wouldn't be able to spend extra time in the library Harry followed Tom upstairs to the last room on their schedule – the Gryffinclaw room. It was found on the sixth floor, guarded by two armour knights with pointy spears and heavy shields. Inside was a grand hexagonal room with an impossibly high arched ceiling. In the middle was a long, narrow stage extended between two of the six corners of the room. On each side of it were square tables, symmetrically placed and all with four chairs to go with it. Just like the Slytherpuff room in the dungeons, this must me a place used for celebration, Harry mused.

There were some people in the room, which had to be located in one of Hogwarts many towers Harry decided, but they weren't sitting down. They were walking around on the stage, looking at paintings floating in mid-air, some of the students evidently pointing at specific works of art, explaining something about them to others listening closely.

"It's the art club having an exhibition... That was fast, must have worked during the summer," Tom mumbled in surprise.

* * *

As the first week of school started up, Harry was under a lot of pressure at first. All the teachers, except for Dumbledore that was, seemed to be under impression he was some super genius sent from the future to conquer them all. They soon realized this not to be true, naturally, but before then they sent question after question Harry's way, expecting him to get all of them, even the most outrageous ones, right in one go.

There was also a lot of students coming up to him, asking all kinds of question, expecting him to know all about the future education, political situation, famous witches and wizards as well to know what happened to every other person in the future. Were they the most famous keeper in the Quidditch field? Were they the future minister for magic? Were they the inventor of the newest, lifesaving potion and hence filthy rich?

Sadly enough, Harry couldn't answer many of their questions. He'd only been in the magical world for one year and what he'd learned was very specific and also sparse on details.

Among all the people fishing for information of the future, Tom was the most persistent one, never tiring of asking questions out of his new friend, only backing off when Harry finally snapped. Then, he'd lose the intensity in his eyes and smile apologetically, making Harry forgive him instantly.

It wasn't that he didn't want to help people – quite the opposite! His _purpose_, as Dumbledore had put it, was to _change things_. And to change things he had to _tell_ people things. It was definitely a letdown he couldn't do what he was there for for most people. But still, he had one person in mind constantly when someone asked him of their future. Eileen – he _had_ to find her and stop her from marrying her abusive husband. But so far she was a no-show. He was starting to wonder if she was too young to be at school yet, or if she'd graduated already...

His dorm mates had turned out to be growing gradually less and less amusing and more and more annoying. Bert was constantly complaining about _everything_, a full scale pessimist, and didn't consider anything what so ever to be the least bit good – he always looked at the dark side of things. That the twins constantly were there to rile him up didn't make it in any way better, and they often choose to nag at him, making it worse, instead of letting him be to cool off, finding his fits of unhappiness to be _very_ amusing for some unknown reason. Harry was starting to get constant headaches spending too much time with them and made sure to make his escape to Lora's or Tom's side as often as he could.

Classes were going fine, after the teachers had realized his status as an ordinary human being, that was. He was doing slightly better in potions class, Professor Slughorn not making it a habit to throw insults at him, making it hard to concentrate through the boiling of his blood. However, it seemed the lenient style the new professor used didn't work as well on the other students, for there were a lot of accidents in that class. It seemed the student body as a whole concentrated better when constantly being on guard from doing something wrong and potentially losing a cauldron full of house points for it.

On the second day of classes Harry had got the shock of his life when a real live Professor Binns had walked through the door of the History of Magic classroom. He was still dead old but not... well, _dead _dead. Another interesting change in classes was having Dumbledore as a professor. He was not at all what Harry had expected him to be – absent-minded and fuzzy. Alright, he _was_ a bit fuzzy, but he really seemed to know what he was talking about. He was no way near as stern as Professor McGonagall had been, but he all the same had the gift of making an entire classroom give him their full attention with one look at them.

But on the whole, all was well and Harry found himself getting comfortable with his new life, not worrying too much about what was in the past. Fact was, everything was going so well, he found himself with a lot of spare time on his hands. _Too _much spare time! He had never been one who enjoyed sitting down and doing nothing – he wanted life and motion – excitement! He had gone on a few adventures with Harold, sneaking around under the Invisibility Cloak, and Tom would be there to entertain him, most of the time. But he was itching for something to _do_.

Then, he found it. On the notice-board in the Gryffindor common room hung a sign-up sheet for the Quidditch team. The try-outs were dated to Saturday the 16th of September – in three days. Perfect!

Someone who didn't find it just as _perfect_ was Tom.

"Do you know how dangerous that sport is? Why can't you do something that is actually worthwhile? Like studying harder for example? Would it kill you to get straight O's on the exams? No – but do you know what _would_ kill you? Joining the Quidditch team!"

Harry just laughed at him, making him flare up at the notion of being laughed at. Tom was, in most cases, calm and friendly. Quite rare qualities in a Slytherin, Harry thought. But once he found someone was making fun of him, no matter if it was supposed to be friendly bantering, he still saw it as an attack to his person. He would lose his cool and snap viciously, sometimes even stalking out of the room, not to be seen until later in the evening, or in the morning even. Other times he would pick out his diary to vent, while at the same time casting mean glances at the one having shunned him.

Yes, the diary. Harry still hadn't found any good opportunity to take it from his friend. Although he'd often seen it, Tom always carrying it around in his book bag, his friend also kept it under constant surveillance, as if he somehow _knew_ someone was after it.

As the days passed by and Harry felt more and more at ease with his new life he got scared of something happening to the book. If it was turned into something that could pull him through time again, he would not only lose everything, _again_, but he would also most likely cease to exist altogether.

That was why, in the evening, he approached Harold and asked him to follow him on yet another adventure.

* * *

They were standing under the Invisibility Cloak in the nearly empty Slytherdor room, close to the snake painting, waiting for the group of Slytherins lounging there to call it a night. They had to wait for about ten minutes, then two of them arose and made for the passage, whispering a password Harry didn't catch and slipped in behind the painting. Before it could close behind them Harold hurriedly pulled Harry and himself through, and they sneaked their way behind the Slytherins, stealthily making it into the common room without being noticed.

Harry made a sign he wanted to sneak closer to the boy's dormitories, in order to get close to Tom's bed where he, hopefully, kept his book bag when out of classes. They were just about to make it to the staircases when Harry accidentally stepped on the hem of the cloak, loosing balance and promptly fell out of cover and onto his butt, letting out a loud "uff" as he did so. He was instantly surrounded by four young boys – Tom's room mates, he realized with dread – and Harold was nowhere to be seen. He must have escaped, leaving his little brother to fend for himself, Harry thought with a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Selwyn singsonged mockingly. The other boys snickered and looked at each other, internally deciding what to do with their prisoner.

"Come to spy on us, Potter, notice-me-not charm gone wrong?" Malfoy mocked acidly and Harry flew to his feet, a furious glare on his face, masking the true terror he in fact felt.

"Maybe he's too stupid to realize he's not welcome here – the idiot! Probably thinks he's above all the rules, thinks he's _special_ because he's from the _future_," Avery jeered, the others laughing merrily in agreement.

"I wouldn't put it past him," Lestrange said lazily. "He's already crossed the boundaries, sitting at the Slytherin table eating, after all. Why not make the entire Slytherin house his personal playground?"

"You here to play, Potter?" Selwyn jeered and Harry was just about to tell them all where they could stuff it when there was an ice cool voice from behind them.

"What is this? What is that _Gryffindor_ doing in here?"

After that, Harry was unceremoniously dragged out of the common room and to Professor Slughorn's office by his captor – a sixth year Slytherin prefect. He promptly got a detention for the next day, but was let off quite easily by the professor, who actually winked at him.

"I recognize that curious streak, my boy! Don't let it get you into trouble again. Now, run along, it's past curfew already!"

When he finally got back to the Gryffindor common room, after a long, silent walk with the Slytherin prefect as guard, he found Harold there, sitting in the sofa, laughing with his friends. As he caught sight of his brother, however, his look turned solemn and he hurried to engulf Harry in a restricting embrace.

"I'm _so_ sorry, I just freaked out! Can you ever forgive me? I mean, it's not like I wanted to leave you there but... You're twelve, you can get away with it relatively easily! If a fifteen year old like myself were to be caught sneaking around in another common room they would immediately draw the conclusion I was there to peep at the girls in their dorms – I just couldn't! Please, Harry, sorry?"

Not in the mood to make another scene, Harry simply nodded dully and slipped up to his dormitory to get some sleep. Just as he was about to close the door he paused at the sound of Charlus' outraged voice, echoing between the stairwell walls: "YOU DID WHAT?" and the answered "IT'S HIS FAULT FOR GETTING CAUGHT!" from Harold. He could just barely hear Charlus spit out "You just wait until Aunt Nicole hears about this..." before the door closed behind him and blessed silence soothed his banging head.

* * *

The next day the entire school knew of his little adventure into the Slytherin common room, and he was bothered about it non-stop by students from all the four houses, some of them teasing him in a somewhat friendly way, others being outright hostile. The only one not reacting was, surprisingly enough, Tom. In fact, he didn't say a word about it, seemingly not surprised in the least. It made Harry feel a lot better, having such a loyal friend.

Friday evening Harry was starting to feel _very_ restless. Tomorrow would be the day for the Quidditch try-outs, and he _really_ wanted to get his diary-snatching task over and done with so that he wouldn't have to worry about that as well while on the pitch. Thus far, Tom had kept it very close to his person, and Harry was getting desperate. The last thing he wanted was to suddenly pop out of existence in the middle of the air – on one of the school's old broomsticks. That was why he instantly jumped as an opportunity showed itself.

They were sitting in the Slytherdor room, as they often did in the evenings, and suddenly Tom went to the bathroom – leaving the diary lying innocently on the table next to the long parchment scroll he had been writing down his transfiguration homework onto. Harry didn't hesitate and hurried to snatch it away, laying one of Tom's other textbooks in its place as if it had been there all along.

When Tom came back, he did so with an excited smile on his lips, raking all his things together and putting them in his book bag. "Come on," he whispered. "I want to show you something!"

Instantly intrigued, Harry hurried to stuff his things back into his bag and followed his friend into the little toilet he'd just come out from.

Tom closed the door behind them, Harry turned around to look at him inquiringly and froze, his hammering heart turning to ice.

In front of him stood, not his friend, but a completely emotionless copy of him. No, not a copy, Harry realized, the _real_ Tom. Pain built up in his chest as he came to the conclusion the friend he'd made in the past two weeks did not exist. He'd been played for a fool, all along.

There was no mocking smirk on Tom's lips, his dark green eyes held no emotion what so ever as he closed in on Harry, his wand raised in a threatening position.

"Game over, liar," he hissed in a dead cold voice.

* * *

_A/N: What a monstrous beast of a chapter this was – impossibly difficult to transfer from head to paper – for some reason... Hope you liked it! And, again, thank you SO much for the support! _

_Mischief managed! _


	5. Fly Me Up on a Silver Wing

******Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Five

___Fly Me Up on a Silver Wing_

* * *

Harry felt himself go stiff as a board, breathing coming out in shallow huffs as Tom stepped closer, pressing the tip of his wand deep into his victim's neck. There was a twitchy roughness to his motions, although nothing else about him showed any sign of any inner turmoil. He was the true master of indifference.

"I'm done playing this game of cat and mouse with you," he whispered softly, wand still in place, leaving a dark bruise where it touched skin. "You're not as innocent as you seem, are you, Harry?"

There was a mad gleam building up in his dark eyes and his tone of voice turned almost amused. "You know, I thought I had you all figured out that day when you came back from London, surrounded by your family. If questioned I'd been able to swear that you'd just got all that you ever wanted and that you'd been telling me the truth from the start. But no, then you had to go and hunt me down, claiming to still want to be ___best friends_!" Tom spat the word out, as if he couldn't stand even having it in his mouth for too long. "I knew something was off then, but I decided to play along... I'd already discovered your secret by then after all... But apparently, you had more in store – proof right in front of me. You were after the diary all along, weren't you?"

Harry hadn't thought it possible, but Tom actually managed to inch even closer to him, making them share the same air. Harry was starting to cold sweat.

"You didn't get here by accident, no you were ___sent _here, for this!" Tom had snatched the diary out of Harry's robe pocket and held it at eye level for them both to see in the corner of their green eyes.

"I've seen how you look at it, every time I take it out, you obviously have a hidden agenda. Do you know what bothers me, Harry?" Tom asked and his entire being turned cold as ice.

"You see, the entire time I've been playing you, trying to get you to trust me, to tell me what I want to know – the ___entire time _you've in turn been playing ___me_. NOBODY plays me, you hear?"

Harry started shivering, doing his best to explain, to prove Tom wrong, but he couldn't get out a word he was so terrified. He could only shake his head twitchily, a motion going unnoticed by his furious captor.

"What is your plan? Who sent you? What is this diary going to become? Why do you need it?"

"YOU'RE WRONG!" Harry bellowed, heartbroken. How could Tom betray him like this, pretending to be his friend, pretending to ___like _him? All the fun they'd had, all the companionable and heart-felt moments they'd shared – how could it have all been a lie? How ___could _it? "I haven't been lying to you, I've told you nothing but the truth!" he said in a wavering voice.

Tom let out a furiously snarled "___coaudio_" and Harry yelped in surprise as his entire neck started to convulse in painful cramps. The aching started where the wand tip touched skin and worked its way like a clenching collar pulling his head upwards. White blind fear hit him as he started running out of air.

"Lets try that again, liar. What. Is. Your. Plan?" Tom hissed viciously into his ear.

Harry felt tears starting to stream down his cheeks at the prolonged cramping. It fucking HURT! Almost as much as it hurt his heart his once beloved friend would torture him like this.

"My plan is... plan is to get the diary from... to take it... destroy it, so... Tom please, let me go..." he wheezed out. The cramping intensified for a couple of terrifying heart beats as Tom's anger flared at being ordered by him. Then the heavy pressure disappeared, finally, as the curse was lifted. Harry let out a relieved breath of air and slumped together, exhausted.

"Talk." Tom commanded and there was an evident threat of a time limit there. Harry cleared his sore throat carefully before levelling a heartfelt glare at his tormentor, only gaining a raised brow in response.

"I need to destroy the diary before you turn it into something..."

"Into what?" Tom demanded snappishly, clearly thinking in lines of Harry trying to leave out important details.

"I don't know!" Harry hissed out, offended the other mistrusted him so easily. "And I'm not lying! I got here by accident, you saw how first seat. I wasn't sent here by ___anyone_, the only reason I know I have to destroy the diary is because Dumbledore told me so. It is the only thing keeping me here, if you turn it into something... whatever, that can pull me through time again, it's the end for me. There's nothing to go back to. So, there, that's it, let me go."

Tom's being shifted, turning back into indifference, as he looked Harry deep in the eyes, evidently contemplating something. "No, see, that can't be the case," he suddenly decided, clenching his jaw. "If that were to be true you would have told me so from the start, begging me to give you the diary, pleading your case. I succeeded in my task, I saw it happen; five minutes of bragging, of showing vulnerability, of trust, I had you eating right out of my hand. There was no reason for you to sneak around and trying to steal it when you could have just asked me for it."

Harry stopped himself just in time before sharply denying ever being as pathetic as Tom evidently found him. He ___really _wanted to say it, but he didn't fancy any more cramps mistreating his sore neck. "No, I couldn't risk it. You liked it too much, you wouldn't have given it to me," he grunted out instead.

Tom narrowed his eyes in frustration. "And ___what _makes you say that? Wasn't I the definition of understanding, of kind, of generous?"

"No," Harry said, smiling at the notion of him not having been completely fooled after all. "You try and control everything. You can't take critique, even if it's well-intended. You would have kept it under locks and bars had I told you of my reasons."

Tom stood silent for a long time, just looking at the boy he had trapped against the wall. Harry was starting to get weary of how crowded the small bathroom was – also, he couldn't move an inch thanks to the other's proximity. Then, Tom hummed thoughtfully, before smirking nastily. "I'm starting to see a little flaw in your, indeed genius, plots and schemes, Harry. ___How_, exactly, do you know that one: it was I who turned it into something that would pull you through time, and two: that destroying the diary altogether won't make you disappear as well?"

Harry took deep breaths and tried to recall what his captor had said, but the walls were moving in on him. It was ___so _crowded! "What? No.. Err, well how do ___you _know?"

"I ___don't_, that's my point!" Tom hissed in annoyance.

"Yeah, that's great. Can we get out of here? Like... right now!" Uncanny, blinding fear of running out of air started seeping into Harry's overloaded mind.

Tom just looked him, at his face, the beads of sweat building at his temples. Then he laughed quietly, as if he knew exactly what the other was going through. "Tell me what I want to know, and I let you out. I promise," he said with a sweet smile, raising his hand to caress his captive's cheek in a show of dominance.

Harry twisted his head roughly to the side in order to get away from the touch, his neck muscles aching, and took a deep breath to try and clear his mind. "It's your diary, isn't it? Of course it's you who's gonna change it. Who would choose to use someone else's diary of all things to do... whatever it is? That's stupid!"

"Yes, but you can't know, now can you? There's plenty of stupid people to choose from..." Tom stated coldly.

"That doesn't matter! 'Cause there's ___one _person who I know for sure will ___not _turn it, someone who wasn't here last time. Me!"

Tom watched him closely and then mockingly held the little black book over his head, waving it about. "Too bad you don't have it then," he said, snatching it down again and putting it into his own robe pocket. "You never answered my other question, ___Harry_. How do you know you can safely destroy the diary?"

Harry opened his mouth to snap something, before stray sentences from his talk with Dumbledore slipped up to the front of his mind.

"___Time travelling is a very peculiar business"..."It seems time is linear"..."There simply is nothing there for you to go back to"..."Your body and soul are anchored in this time-line now"..."I believe the fact that this diary is not yet made into a means of transport is what is keeping you in this world, Harry, it is the anchor holding you fast"..."you would lose the one thing holding you here"_

Harry felt his face pale dramatically and he felt quite faint all of a sudden. "Oh no..." he gasped out and Tom smiled in cruel self-satisfaction. He then patted Harry's head patronizingly and stepped out of the toilet, leaving a ghost pale boy behind.

* * *

Harry somehow managed to make it back to his dormitory without collapsing. When he stepped through the door he almost collided with Isidorus, who jumped in fright of his sudden apparition.

"Whoa! Hi there Harry! Merlin, you're white as a sheet! You that nervous about them Quidditch try-outs tomorrow?"

Harry didn't utter a word as he went over to his bed, sinking down on it, massaging his temples carefully. Isidorus sat down next to him, patting his back comfortingly.

"Hey, don't worry! You just gotta keep a level head, breath deep and work yourself through. And it's not the entire world would you fail tomorrow – you could always try again next year. Oh, and I reckon you could join some other club were that the case. You know, you could join the drama club, with me and Ignis!"

"You guys're in a drama club?" Harry asked in mild surprise. He hadn't heard the others talk of it before.

"Oh yeah! It's called "Five Squibs and a Griffin" – I'm pretty sure they'd let you join as well, if you wanted. We're not as exclusive as some other groups... Like those stuck up duellers, for a start."

"Would you stuff it," came a whiny grunt from Lambert's bed in the far off corner. "Some of us are actually trying and get some sleep here!"

There was a mockingly exaggerated snoring coming from Ignatius' bed and Isidorus started laughing loudly, throwing pillows at Lambert's bed, obviously not in the mood to let his friend go to sleep quite yet. Then the twins started singing "Mary had a little Lamb" in shrill voices and Harry groaned miserably, sinking back on the bed, still fully clothed, and immediately fell asleep.

The next morning Harry didn't even feel he could be bothered getting out of bed. Isidorus, however, felt he was being utterly silly and ___kindly _dragged him out of it and downstairs to get some breakfast. At 9.00 am he was standing amongst about 15 other Gryffindors of varying age on the Quidditch pitch, holding one of the School's rugged broomsticks in a slack grip. He was starting to feel nauseous.

Suddenly, three students, two girls and a boy, stepped out of the stands and came to stand in front of them all. The Quidditch captain, Keylee Emmett, swept her calculating gaze from the first in line to the last, taking them all in for a moment. "You are all here for one thing – to play Quidditch," she said, in a clear voice that was gradually building strength. "You are not here to show off, you are not here to win the fame and glory which belongs to the members of the team, you are not here to waste my time, IS THAT CLEAR?"

"YES, CAPTAIN!" they all agreed readily.

"Good!" Emmett smiled, pacing slowly with her arms behind her back. "Now, the open positions for this year are as follows: one beater, two chasers and one seeker. I have agreed to keep our excellent keeper Robbins from last year, who saw to it we only let in a total of five Quaffles, yes that is worthy of an applause. Also, the very beater who made sure last year's Ravenclaw captain spent his last days of school in the hospital wing: Stevens!" The two Gryffindors behind them waved happily from behind the captain, no doubt relieved to know they were out of the storm.

"Well, then," Emmett said in a stern tone of voice. "I want you all in the air, making three laps around the pitch. GO! GO!"

Harry swung his leg over the broomstick and shot up into the air. Making laps was easy, and he felt the previous tension he'd been bothered by since last night melt away. He was flying again. Finally! He wasn't the fastest flier on the pitch, his broom not exactly on the top of the field, but he held his own staying amongst the top five fliers. When he'd made his three laps he made a joyous volt, breathing down deep gulps of fresh air. Emmett waved her index finger in a circling motion and the fliers gather around her, mid air.

"Alright then," she yelled, pointing out the five slowest students. "Hobbs, Marple, Abbott, Lesley, King – you're all out! Thank you for your participation." Five of them descended and went to sit at the stands while Emmett traded looks with her two already-set team members.

"Okay, what do we have? How many trying for beater?" Three people raised their hands and Emmett called them to form a group to the left. "Chasers?" The clear majority of the try-outs turned out to be after that position, leaving Harry and an older looking girl left competing to become the team's seeker.

They were ordered to play a mock game of Quidditch, Harry and the fourth year Camille Wilcox immediately shooting away, searching wildly for the little golden snitch. Harry didn't have to look for long but quickly found it and zeroed in on it, getting closer and closer by the minute.

He felt so happy, so free! He was finally doing something that he enjoyed, something he felt glad excised in his life still. A firm point that wasn't going anywhere. Whatever happened he'd still have the sky. Nobody could take that away from him. He'd always be able to fly, soar high amongst the birds and low... low...

The snitch was moving closer and closer to the ground and Harry had to be wary not to get too close if he didn't want to crash. Suddenly, Wilcox was at his side, shouldering him out of minute balance.

Then – the snitch dove in under the stands, slipping in through a very dark, very narrow opening, flying below ground. Wilcox zoomed after it in lightening speed. Harry took a deep breath and followed her.

Then, his heart jumped as the broomstick halted mid-air, refusing to move. He let out a frustrated snarl and half-turned, trying again.

The broom decided to make him do a back-flip instead.

Harry roared in furious outrage and made to do it again – when there was an angrily shouted "POTTER!" from behind him. Turning around he saw captain Emmett there, looking annoyed, her hair out of order. "Get off of the pitch! NOW!"

Shame engulfed him, part for making a scene, part for failing at something which was as natural to him as breathing. He descended, head held low and went to put the broom back into the shed. He then returned to sit with the other outcasts, watching who would make the team instead of them.

And he watched them all, applauding with the others as the new team was picked out by the captain. He was still sitting there even after everybody else had left, just looking at the sky, wondering what he was to do now. Where would he go from there? What would he do now? Was there even something else he was good at?

He was pulled out of his depressive thoughts by someone clearing her throat next to him. It was the captain. She sat down next to him, sighing deeply. "You calmed down yet?" she said, smiling softly at him in understanding, as if she somehow knew what bothered him.

"Yeah," he said, resolutely ___not _looking at that kind smile, feeling he didn't deserve it. "I just don't understand what went wrong. Why did the broom behave like that? Never happened before."

"Remember your first flying lesson, Potter?"

Harry frowned and thought back, at first only recalling Malfoy's mean show-off, and then remembered the very very short actual lesson.

"The first thing you learn, if it still is so in the future that is, is to take control of the broom. You order it up into your hand, right? You see, to be able to fly at all you need not only to control the broom – you need to trust it. Otherwise, it won't comply. That was what happened today, Potter. You didn't trust the broom to take you safely through the stands."

Emmett smiled warmly at him again, her brown eyes full of compassion. "You know, it's only natural what happened. When we find ourselves in a situation where we can get hurt easily, as in this case with a high risk of collision, we stiffen up, starting do doubt our abilities."

"That's not it," Harry said, finally finding strength enough to meet her eyes properly. "I'm not scared of getting hurt... I'm scared of getting stuck, of not getting out, of getting trapped."

She nodded slowly, her smile not as brilliant any more. "Alright, good, that means you know what your problem is. Now, if you want to get back onto the pitch, ___that _is what you will have to work on. And you know, flying like that, you could hold any position on the pitch you wanted. You don't have to choose the one where there's a risk you have to get into compromising positions. Next year, try out for beater!"

Harry smiled at her, she was right. It wasn't the entire world – he could try again. For this year, though, he would have to find something else to occupy himself with. But with what?

* * *

People were mulling about the entire room, eating sandwiches and drinking from steaming hot cups. Thankfully, there was no sign of Peeves, Harry mused as he took his sandwich and sat down at one of the round tables.

"So you didn't make the team this year, it's cool. No worries! Actually, it's great! Now you can help me on my quest, finding the kitchens!" Lora took a seat to his right, her plate overflowing with cookies.

Harry raised a brow at her, watching as she gobbled down three chocolate crisp cookies in one go. "You know, I find it a bit confusing why you're so obsessed with finding the kitchens when you have full 24/7 access to a room like this. You couldn't possibly want ___more _food?"

"Why not?" Lora said, wiping her mouth and waving for the hot chocolate milk pot to hover their way. "You know, sometimes I might want biscuits, cookies and the sort of snack food they have here. But not ___all _the time! I gotta have some variety! You know, I might wake up in the middle of one of those nights and have a desperate craving for... for chicken drumsticks! I can't get that here, now can I?"

"No, but if you woke up at night hungry, all you would have to do was wait for morning to come, and you could have the ordinary Hogwarts festive breakfast."

"Aye, but they don't serve chicken drumsticks at those, do they?"

Harry just stared at his tiny, curly haired cousin in astonishment, as she continued to stuff herself with sweets. "How can you stay so...___thin _if you eat like that?" he accused, thinking of his whale of a cousin, Dudley.

"I exercise," Lora explained calmly, shrugging nonchalantly.

"You ___do_?" Sure, it would explain how she stayed in shape, but Harry hadn't seen any signs of the lazy little girl ever hurrying or keeping up speed. ___Ever_. In fact – she'd asked him, plenty of times, if he could piggyback her around so she wouldn't have to walk on her own.

"Sure, I'm on the track team," she said, smiling at his dumbstruck face. "We meet thrice a week to swim, run and jump. On Tuesdays we go down to the Black Lake, the captain spelling out heads with the bubble-head charm, and we swim around. Most of them just do it because they want to see the merpeople, some grindylows or the giant squid. I, on the other hand, am on the constant lookout for treasures. Such as this!" she said, digging out a necklace from out of her blouse, a bright pink seashell dangling from its end. "And then, on Thursdays we meet up by the forbidden forest, the captain casting disillusionment charms on us, so that the dangerous creatures within won't take notice. And then we run, cross country. Sometimes we have to fight off them Billywigs or some bunch of pixies, but then and again we run into some glen and find ourselves face to face with a unicorn. It's pretty wicked!"

Harry couldn't help but smile affectionately at her as her whole being seemed to sparkle with excitement, retelling her stories of adventures passed. "And on Sundays we stay by the castle, captain spelling the soles of our shoes to go all bouncy, and we just jump around, doing volts and throwing each other about. Sometimes, we take out a snitch and try and catch it."

"What do you do in the winter?"

"Oh, well, pretty much the same, until the snow comes, that is. We don't meet up as often then, but sometimes we have some spontaneous snowball fights. You know, it'd be great if you joined! I reckon you'd like it!"

Harry was just about to say he'd love to when there was a concerned voice coming from behind them. "You thinking of joining the track team, Harry? But you can't, remember?" Tom said, taking a seat to his left, looking as concerned as he sounded.

"And why is that?" Harry grit out between clenched teeth, his day turning out to be just bloody ___perfect_.

"Well," Tom said, his voice lowering to a discrete whisper. "Because of your condition. I don't want to embarrass you or anything, but, you're just too... ___frail_. You'd get hurt."

"What? What condition?" Lora whispered in confusion.

"I don't have a ___condition_!" Harry snapped. What was Tom playing at?

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Tom exclaimed, looking all flustered and apologetic. "I thought you'd told her."

"Told me ___what_?" Lora pressed, looking at her cousin intently.

"He's anorexic," Tom said, a look of defiance slipping onto his face. "I'm sorry, Harry, but you're making me do it! I ___need __t_o tell someone, you're hurting yourself! And you're putting yourself into dangerous situations! I can't believe you actually decided to go to the Quidditch try-outs, even though I begged you not to. Who knows what could have happened? Thank the lord you didn't make it through!"

"What's ___anorexic_?" Lora asked confusedly.

"___I'm not anorexic!_" Harry hissed out in outrage, but the others paid him no heed.

"It's when you're scared of gaining weight and thus eat very little. That's why he's so skinny."

"___That's NOT why I'm skinny!_" He couldn't believe it! Tom knew he'd lost his weight thanks to being locked up in his room for a month. He ___knew_, and now he turned the fact Harry had trusted him with the information against him? And Lora quite obviously bought it too, looking at him with wide sympathetic eyes.

"Until he gains some weight, he's very fragile." Tom explained quietly, casting apologetic looks at the fragile boy in question. Harry was not amused.

"Sweet Merlin, Harry, I didn't know!" Lora exclaimed worriedly and he finally lost it, turning to Tom in utter rage.

"You think you're so clever, huh? Whatsit you're after this time? You slimy little piece of shit-"

"Harry!" Lora exclaimed in outrage, "calm down, he's just trying to help you."

"NO, HE'S NOT!" he yelled, and the room became eerily quiet for a few seconds before people went back to paying attention to each other.

"Harry, please, it's nothing to be embarrassed about. You just need to eat more-" Tom said, looking down into his lap, his voice wavering.

"I ___am _eating!" he said, pointing at the untouched sandwich lying innocently on his lunch plate.

"You haven't even touched it," Lora breathed out, looking him accusingly in the eyes. "___That's why _it bothers you so much that I eat a lot – you feel disgusted!"

"No!" Harry exclaimed, terrified Lora would start disliking him because of this. "Of course not!" And to prove it he took a big bite out of his sandwich, humming in appreciation. "See, I'm eating! I'm ___not sick_!"

"You just got to keep eating, Harry. And the Quidditch thing... It's not that big a problem, you can join some other club, one that won't put too much strain on your body." Tom said quietly, still looking down, a dark blush colouring his cheeks.

"He's right, you know," Lora said, nodding wisely. "Hey, aren't your dorm mates in an acting group? Why don't you join them, it could be fun?"

"I'm not that much into acting," Harry stated icily, turning his burning gaze onto the bowed head of the sad looking Slytherin. "But you should join though, Tom. You're such a ___great _actor, you'd be the star of the show in a minute. In fact, your level of deceit is so enormously high, you could take on the stages of Broadway without any effort at all. Actually, you should go! Go follow your dreams fucking ___Errol Flynn_, and leave me the HELL ALONE!"

"What?" Tom gasped out, finally looking up, dark green eyes full of hurt, cheeks white as a sheet.

"Harry Potter, you apologize, right now!" Lora sputtered in disbelief.

"Never!" Harry said venomously and stalked out of the Gryffinpuff room, face flushing dark red in anger.

He didn't make it far until he was unceremoniously pulled into an empty classroom, finding himself face to face with a very amused looking Tom Riddle. He was standing tall, proud and clean, no sign what so ever he'd been close to a ___faked _breakdown moments ago.

"Well, I must say I'm pleased you think so highly of my acting skills, ___Harry_. Why, that threat over there sounded almost like a compliment."

Harry was pretty sure he'd been the one throwing the first hex, but he couldn't be entirely sure. Soon, they were both engaged in a furious duel, desks and chairs flying all over the place as spells missed their dodging targets. At one point, Harry felt one of Tom's favourite cramping hexes hit his right leg, but ignored the pain as he put all his weight onto the left one. It slowed him down, though, and soon he fell to the floor, completely stiffened by a well-aimed ___petrificus totalus _hitting him square in the chest.

"Better be careful, Harry, you don't want to fracture your very ___fragile bones_." Tom mocked from above him, completely unfazed by the glare shot at him from ground level. He then bent down and snatched Harry's wand away, twirling it around his right hand fingers as he cancelled the full body-bind curse with his own wand held in his other hand.

Harry immediately flew off of the floor once released, standing glaring at his tormentor with a look that surely should be able to kill.

"God, you are the most ___insufferable_, pity guy with the hugest superiority complex I've ___ever _met! And believe me, I've met my fare share of douchebags, there's no one quite as nasty as you. I FUCKING HATE YOU!"

Tom leered at him, a dark glare flickering in his eyes, its intensity enough for Harry to take a wary step backwards. "I thought I told you to be careful, Harry... Bones break so easily, after all..."

"What do you want?" Harry asked, stiffening as Tom stepped closer, close enough to whisper in his ear.

"It's getting a bit chilly out, don't you think? With autumn coming and all... I might just make a bonfire. You know what would work ___really well _as tinder, Harry? Little black books."

Harry swallowed nervously. He thought he saw where this was going.

"You see," Tom continued in a sugar sweet tone. "You might hate me as much as you want, but as long as I have the diary in my possession, you follow my lead. You don't have a choice. Unless you're suicidal, of course, but something's telling me you're not..."

With those words Tom pulled away, still leering deviously, and walked out the classroom door, clearly pleased with how things developed. Before the door clicked shut, there was a soft clinker as Harry's wand fell discarded at the floor. The lone Gryffindor clenched his jaw painfully.

* * *

___A/N: Thank you guys for the continued support, I hope you liked the chapter. A special thanks to "Guest" whose critique really helped putting me on the right track, letting me know what I needed to focus on this time. On a side-note, I nearly laughed myself to death writing the beginning of this chapter – everything Tom said sounded so dirty to me! Oh well, until next time!_

___Mischief managed!_


	6. Past the Black Where the Siren Sing

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Six

_Past the Black Where the Siren Sing_

* * *

From that day on Harry suffered from loss of freedom. He was, once again, completely dependent on somebody else's goodwill. And the fact that that _somebody else_ was a self-serving right out crazy sadist did not make it the least bit better.

Being Tom's dog was nothing like being Tom's friend had been. The main difference – Harry now knew what was hidden behind the pleasant, polite persona the boy showed to the other people around them. He wasn't acting differently, per se, but the fact Harry now knew it was all faked soured the entire perception he had of the other. He now could take nothing Tom did as genuine or _good_. All he saw was ill-intent. It was like being forced to act compliant and friendly with Draco Malfoy, while every single second in actuality wanting to snap the other's neck. What dreams were made of. Nightmares, that was.

And to top it all off, Lora had been so irked by how _Harry_ had acted in the Gryffinpuff room she hadn't forgiven him until he actually _apologized_ to the bloody blackmailer, _right in front of her_. And the worst part was, he couldn't even defend himself, because if he did, Tom would make his freaking bonfire and burn the innocent little diary to dust: killing him.

The next couple of days passed with Harry constantly on guard. He dreaded the day Tom would stop leering his way superciliously and start demanding things from him. So far, the boy had done nothing out of the ordinary, he was still holding up his act as the polite and charming best friend he'd pretended to be. The only thing the least bit odd was Tom's continuous interest in Lily Evans. He would never stop asking about her – what were the exact shade of her eyes? Did she have prominent cheekbones? Did she resemble her parents? What had her sister looked like? Were they alike? At what exact date and time had she been born? Had she had any special talents? Where had she been employed? And on and on and on. Now that Tom didn't watch out for making Harry suspicious all restraint he'd evidently put on himself were discarded, of no further use to him.

Harry _was_ suspicious – extremely so! But whenever he'd try and pry the reasons out of his gaoler he would only get an eerie smirk in response. Bloody, tight-lipped sadist!

Because he was a sadist – it wasn't just something Harry had thought up in his enraged mind – no! Tom quite evidently took pleasure out of ordering him around. Of him not having any other choice than to obey blindly. Of him knowing what would happen did he break the rules of their messed up relationship.

And worst of all – Harry was rarely left alone by his tormentor. Every class they had together Tom expected him to be a good little dog and sit by his side, leash tight. That left only one day of the week, the blessed Wednesday, when he could breathe out because he didn't have any classes with the Slytherins. In the evenings, however, Tom expected him to stay with him until curfew at 9 pm, or later if they hung out in the Slytherdor room. The short, but blessed, breaks of breakfast, lunch and dinner reminded Harry eerily of the bathroom breaks the Dursleys had graced him with during his lock-down in the summer. In fact, this entire situation reminded him of the summer past. He could not go anywhere, he could not ask for help, he could not make his own decisions, he even found himself _bored_ as the other still hadn't given his permission for Harry to join any of the clubs. One week had passed since the Quidditch try-outs when he'd had enough. The tediousness of him not having anything to do, not really, was what inspired him to open the can of worms and demand an explanation.

"Tom, this has got to stop," he exclaimed and Tom merely raised a brow, hissing out a soft "is that so?", eyes not leaving the book page he was on.

"Yes, it is so! This has gotten out of hand – you can't keep tabs on me all the time! I need something to do that is not..." he looked around the nearly empty Slytherclaw room, eyes falling on the pile of books Tom had made him carry around before they took their seats. "... not _this_! I'm not made for sitting down all the time, doing nothing. I need to move!"

"I could throw spells at you while you tried and avoid getting hit... _That_ would make you move..." Tom drawled in disinterest. Harry sighed deeply and tried again.

"I didn't make it into the Quidditch team, so I wanted to join one of the other clubs. Now, you've made it impossible for me to join the track team, so that isn't an option. But the creature-watching club sounds kind of cool..."

"No." Tom simply stated and smirked up at him from behind his heavy book.

"What do you mean _no_?" Harry hissed in outrage. "Why do you have to have me around _all the time_? What's _wrong_ with you?"

"Oh Harry, and here I was, thinking you wanted to be best friends," Tom drawled and Harry growled in frustration, putting his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes.

"We're not joining any sort of club where we will be required to run about, fly or perform on a stage," Tom stated in a calm tone of voice and Harry simply stared at him in disbelief.

"_We_?"

"Naturally," Tom said with another smirk on his lips. "You didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily, did you? And also, I will not agree to spend time on something pointless. You require something to occupy you, _I _require something worthwhile. Something which could prove useful later on."

Getting over the minute shock of Tom actually agreeing to compromise Harry thought about it, but didn't come up with much. He didn't really know what he was good at besides Quidditch, after all, and it had to be something Tom would agree to too. "So what, you wanna join the chess club or something?" he asked to win time.

"It's not an overall appalling thought..." Tom said in a bored tone, flipping through the heavy book he had in his lap, quite obviously not paying their conversation that much attention. "If that is what you want -"

"No!" Harry said hurriedly. "I'm pants at chess, there should be something else we could do... You reckon we could join the art club? No right, they sort of perform on a stage as well, with their exhibitions..."

"No, that would be acceptable," Tom said, casting a curious look at him. "You paint?"

"Not really..." Harry said hesitantly – he had decided to be careful with how much he disclosed about himself to Tom henceforth. The other had misused sensitive information about him before, using his poor living conditions against him, so there were enough reason to stay tight-lipped. "I used to draw when I was in Muggle school, but lately I've kept to doodling in my textbooks..."

"Yes, I've taken notice of your cruel abuse of schoolbooks... Such a disgrace," Tom sighed, flipping through his own book in search for something he found significant. "Was there a particular reason you stopped drawing?"

"My aunt found them, hidden under the mattress in my cupboard..."

"Well?" Tom prompted in a bored sounding drawl. Harry wasn't fooled.

"She didn't like them and threw them into the fireplace..." At Tom's intent look Harry just sighed and gave in. "I had drawn what I imagined my parents to look like... They didn't allow any kind of pictures of _them _in the house. I found an old photograph album once, in the bookshelf, with pictures from Aunt Petunia growing up. I saw what my grandparents looked like and how _she_ looked like when she was little. But whenever my mum was there, or were _supposed_ to be there, she was cut out of the frame..."

Tom hummed non-committally, still paying what would seem to be most of his attention to the book in his lap. Harry knew better. As obsessed as Tom was with Lily Evans, every little straw of information he acquired was swiftly memorized and mulled over, no doubt. The oddities of Tom Riddle... Sometimes, Harry felt like Sancho Panza.

"How do we go about joining the art club anyway?" Harry decided to ask to break the, in his opinion, uncomfortable silence.

"Remember visiting the Gryffinclaw room? They had just set up the exhibition that day, so it is most likely still there. As long as they have their paintings on display, most of them won't be gone for long lest they miss the opportunity of catching someone fawning over their artwork."

* * *

The high roofed hexagonal room was, by the looks of it, completely void of people. Harry followed Tom up onto the narrow stage and walked slowly from one edge to the other, looking at the paintings floating around them.

They were magical paintings, he realized with excitement, the colours and brush strokes moving around on the canvases. Some of the paintings portrayed people, in varying degrees of beauty, others showed landscapes or skies, birds flying in cascades over the blue and pink-shifting surfaces. At the other end of the dais were a bunch of paintings that halted Harry in his tracks, also Tom seemed to find them interesting as he stopped as well.

All over the three canvases, obviously painted by the same person, were clouds in varying colours, swirling around. It looked something like smoke, but in some instances faces seemed to seep through the blur, to disappear again the next moment. The one painting that had Harry the most fascinated was one of dark red smoke, swirling around almost like the smoke in Neville Longbottom's remembrall. At the bottom of the canvas was a little cloud of white, trying to extricate itself from out of the red mass, the frightened face of a young girl seeping up to the surface then and again. In the red smoke, however, there was no face. Although, as they stood looking at it, some of the red darkened into deep black and strong, searching hands started materializing, stretching out to capture the little cloud of white at the bottom.

"You like it? It's a self-portrait," came a clear voice from behind them, and they whipped around as one to find themselves face to face with a young girl. A girl he'd seen before, Harry realized. It was one of the second year Ravenclaws he had Herbology and Charms with – Serena Melpomene. She was taller than most girls their age, and she had long, flowing copper coloured hair usually hanging freely, some of it trailing down the front of her robes. Her eyes were in a strange golden green colour, as if they couldn't decide if they wanted to be brown or green and simply meshed it all together. He hadn't spoken to her before, but he'd taken notice of her in class. She was really pretty.

As she caught sight of Harry, however, her face fell instantly. "Oh no," she gasped, "it's _you_! Please, don't say anything! Whatever happens to me, I don't want to know!"

Harry looked at her in wonder. "What are you on about?" he questioned slowly.

"That's why you're here, isn't it? To tell me of my future? Well, _don't_, I won't hear it!" she said and put her slim, paint-stained hands over her ears in a demonstrating gesture.

Harry held up both his hands in surrender, trying to calm her down. As she slowly dropped her hands from their sheltering position he hurried to explain that wasn't their business, but actually, they wanted to join the club. She looked immensely relieved and readily agreed to show them to the club room.

Tom didn't say anything the entire way to the third floor, but Harry felt it appropriate to break the silence with a little questioning. "So, why don't you want to hear of your future? There have been lots of people coming up to me to tell them, but not you. Not that I have anything to say, but still."

"Believe me," Serena said solemnly. "Knowing what's to come doesn't do _any _good. It controls you, takes away the element of surprise and excitement. Also, sometimes, if you know what's to happen, you do something you believe will make it so, but in fact you ruin everything on the way. There's plenty I wish for, but if I _knew_ it would... chances are it wouldn't happen any more. I don't want that."

"Oh," Harry said in puzzlement,"I hadn't thought of it like that..."

"Not many do," Serena agreed with a small smile his way. "My gran was a seer, and she knew _everything._ She warned me against it ever since I was little. It's not a good life to lead because when you've heard the goddess of fate sing, you can't un-hear it. You will remember it all, and it will feel as if you don't have any other choice than to follow her lead. It will take away your free will."

"It could work to your advantage if it was something you wanted to prevent," Tom claimed in a polite tone, but Serena shook her head in denial.

"In some instances, perhaps, when the message is precise and the event simple to avoid, like: 'never get yourself a cat'. But is it more general, hard to determine and something that would happen over time, especially if you couldn't pinpoint the exact occurrence you needed to avoid, it could turn into a catastrophe. Never play with fate!"

That was when they came to a halt before a dead end in the third floor corridor. "Here we are," Serena said serenely and stepped over to one of the side walls, grabbing hold of one of the arms of the golden wall chandelier and pulling it downwards, like one would turn a door handle. Something clicked and the wall opposite of them became transparent, emitting a soft glow which was coming from inside the room hidden behind the wall.

They stepped through the passage and into a brightly lit, rectangular room. It reminded Harry of the inside of a ship, or a chapel, with its arched ceiling and high, narrow windows in stained glass. The walls were in the same stone material as the rest of the castle, but in this room the rough surface was painted in a cheery pink colour. All over the room hung artwork in different degrees of finish. Spread out around the room were light wooden worktables with high-legged stools, without backrests, surrounding them. Along the same wall as the entrance ran meters and meters of shelves, filled to the rim with colour pots, brushes, canvases, glass bottles, charcoal sticks and everything you could imagine finding in a commercial artist's home.

In the far off corner sat a bony, tall guy with his back to them, painting dots onto the wings of butterflies, fluttering about his work of art. He had his long, pink hair pulled up into a bun on the back of his head, but loose strands of hair kept falling into his eyes as he worked, making him constantly flick them away irritatedly, trying to get them to stay put behind his ears.

Serena pointed at him and murmured in a soft voice. "That's the kingpin right there. His name is Castor Ledford, but don't call him that! Call him Leda... He's a bit fickle, you know, he has his days. His hair's pink today, that usually means trouble... Be careful," she whispered before pushing Harry forwards, smiling encouragingly and fleeing the room.

Harry didn't move though, but looked at Tom warily. "He wants us to call him leader?"

"Leda," Tom corrected instantly.

"Isn't Leda a girl's name?"

Tom simply nodded slowly, hissing in a soft voice. "It is... I know of him, he's one of the Slytherin seventh years... I've only actually _seen_ him once or twice, but I've heard of him lots, none of it good..."

And with that Tom straightened up, his face morphing to adapt a calm, submissive expression, and marched forwards. Harry trailed after him, feeling way out of his depths. What was he even doing here? It wasn't like he could paint anything even _near_ as good as the cluster samplings of paintings he'd seen so far. He was a _doodler_, for Merlin's sake!

As they neared their target Ledford straightened up and turned to face them, as if he'd known them to be there all along. Harry swallowed deeply.

"_Gemini_..." the pink-haired Slytherin whispered to himself as he took both of them in with wide ocean blue eyes.

"We have come to ask for membership," Tom stated levelly. Ledford stared at him for a couple of heartbeats before his gaze trailed over to land on Harry.

"You look surprised, _Antevorta,_" he said with a superior leer.

Frowning at the nickname, Harry gave an apologetic smile. "It's just, your hair! It's so..."

Before their very eyes, the bright pink colour started to shift, darkening into a plum purple to finally land on a midnight blue shade. "Pink?" Ledford suggested and Harry couldn't help himself, he gaped openly.

"How..." he gasped and Ledford actually smiled properly this time.

"Never seen a Metamorphmagus before, have you?" Then, like flipping a switch, he sobered up and watched them with calculating eyes, narrowing as they landed once again on Tom. "This is not the drama club. We do not deal with faked emotions here. Art is real, art is concrete emotion. Can you deal with that, _Apate_?"

Tom twitched irately, as if he tried to get rid of a persistent fly, and his pleasant mask faded away as he in turn narrowed his eyes at the tall boy in front of them. "I can..." he said neutrally, shifting his weight slightly. Harry doubted his sincerity, but Ledford seemed to find it acceptable as he smiled again, holding out his hand for them to shake.

"Welcome to the art club, _Janus_."

* * *

The next day the entire club had gathered to have their weekly Sunday art lesson, with Ledford as teacher. He was absolutely brilliant, Harry thought in admiration, as he demonstrated how to cast the spell which would make the pictures come to life. Tom didn't seem to be quite as besotted as Harry was, however, and grimaced nastily when Ledford lectured them on painting with their hearts, not their brains.

Serena, who had seated herself next to Harry, was of great help as well, and gave him a few well-put pointers. Soon he'd painted something he could actually say he felt proud of: a messy, but well proportioned portrait of the old lady Eileen Snape, sitting by the river bend, hiding from her caretaker with a mischievous smile on her lips.

"Who's that?" Serena asked in interest, and Harry smiled sadly down at the picture.

"It's someone I need to find. I need to help her, tell her not to marry Mr Snape, or she and her son will be very unhappy. Her name is Eileen."

Serena looked at him for a few seconds, but seemed to come to the conclusion this was a case of simple prevention and not a challenge of the fates. "Eileen, you say? Well, Fred has told me of a girl in first year who stands out quite a bit, she's called Eileen. Eileen Prince, I believe."

"That might be her," Harry sighed, feeling immense relief finally finding a lead. "A first year, you say? In what house?"

"Slytherin, the same as Fred. He says he has seen her in the common room from time to time."

"Oh... Wait, what Fred?"

"Alfred Avery, my cousin," Serena explained with a serene smile.

"Avery's your _cousin_?" Harry exclaimed. He couldn't believe someone as sweet and friendly like Serena could be related to the likes of _him_. But then again, he himself was related to the hare-like pessimist Lambert Linwood, and he could clearly say they didn't have much in common either.

"Why, you don't see the resemblance?"

"_No_!" Harry exclaimed with conviction, making Serena giggle minutely. "Well, I do suppose you have the same colour hair..."

Immediately once the art lesson was over, Harry made for the great hall to raid the Slytherin table for the mysterious Eileen Prince. Tom hurried after, his lips in a thin line, obviously not pleased with not being in control of the situation, but not in a setting private enough to change it.

"Hey, Tom, have you seen this Prince person before?"

"I have," the other confessed tensely, "but I was not aware of her first name."

"Alright, do you see her?" Harry asked as they came to a halt in front of the silver and green decorated table in the great hall. Tom swept a bored look around it, but shook his head to show he was out of luck. They both had lunch by their respective tables and then went to search through the library on the third and fourth floors.

The entire afternoon passed and they came up with nothing. It wasn't until they happened upon the group of boys Tom shared a dorm with that they got any wiser. They were sitting under the grand tree in the Ravenpuff room, Lestrange reading, Malfoy and Avery practising their spell work. Selwyn was sitting with his back against the oak trunk, fiddling with something held in his lap. It was with a start Harry realized the boy was actually knitting.

They all looked up when Harry approached them, Tom trailing behind for once.

"Look, it's the lion who wants to be a snake!" Avery jeered, Selwyn laughing loudly.

"Oh, the chimaera! Wotcher chimaera! Lets hear that mighty _roar_!" he grunted merrily.

"Actually, a chimaera is a mix between a lion, a _dragon_ and a goat, so that would not exactly be accurate..." Lestrange drawled from behind his book. Selwyn looked betrayed.

"Hey! Whose side are you on?"

"Apparently, I find myself on the side of the grandmother in miniature," he said, turning pages, still reading. Malfoy and Avery found his jibe hilarious, quite obviously, and laughed merrily.

"Better watch out Potter," Malfoy grunt out between laughs, "or you might be bitten by the granny-bug and start knitting your own socks as well."

Not one to tolerate bullying, or any ill-meant teasing in general, Harry smiled at Selwyn's obviously wounded person. "I don't think that would be so horrible. Actually, I reckon it'd be great being able to sew your own clothes."

For some reason, his comment only made the white-blonde boy and his copper-brunette friend laugh harder. "Why don't you join the sewing circle as well then, Potter? You could knit matching bonnets for each other!" Avery said, shaking of merriment.

"Oh, yes," Selwyn said with a leer, wagging his eyebrows at Avery suggestively. "And then I could knit a tiny, tiny bonnet for you to put onto your willy... Oh wait, I don't think it's possible to knit that small..."

Malfoy was rolling around on the grass, he was laughing so hard, but Avery looked stunned, a dark flush creeping up onto his otherwise pale complexion. "HEY!" he shouted and threw himself at his scrawny friend, doing his best to tickle him to death. Behind him, Harry heard Tom let out a deep sigh, muttering under his breath.

"But of course we have to go search the zoo out, being around them wankers every evening and morning _certainly _isn't enough, is it? Bloody animals, they are."

Harry suddenly recalled a furious scribble he'd read in a little black book, three weeks ago.

_Six more hours of train ride before I'll be home again. Let's just hope it'll be a journey undisturbed by Avery, or worse, Selwyn. Salazar knows I can't stand them! _

He'd just assumed Tom had disliked them because they were being mean to him. After finding out a bit more about his _friend_, however, he started to doubt that was really the case. It could be the other way around, actually, Harry decided.

"That will _not_ be necessary, thank you" Tom drawled, efficiently quieting the lively group of boys on the grass covered ground. "In fact, Harry and I just joined the _art club_, and will not have time for any other sorts of off-schedule activities."

The words 'art' and 'club' seemed to have a magical effect on the others as they all straightened up, looking almost admiring. Although, Malfoy's expression soon turned into a jealous sneer. "The art club?" he said, looking like he'd smelled something putrid. "Best you watch out for the pink dragon, then..."

"More like the pink centaur, I'd reckon," Avery said a bit breathlessly, the jibe lacking any real sting, although the boy looked jealous as well. "I hear he's all obsessed with stars and mythology... that nutcase."

"He's alright," Harry said and turned to face Avery directly. "Look, I'm here because I'm looking for someone, and Serena said you know her. Her name is Eileen Prince. Have you by any chance seen her?"

"You know Serena?" Avery asked in surprise, the look in his eyes softening slightly. "Yeah, actually, it so happens I have. She was on her way to the Owlery, about forty minutes ago. She should be on her way back..."

"Oh," Harry breathed, surprised but relieved it to be so easy getting information out of the crude bunch of boys. "Thanks... See ya!" And with that he turned on his heel and walked away, Tom hurrying to follow. He looked almost... pleased, no, _proud_, Harry realized as he stole a glance at the other walking at his side.

"What's gotten you looking so happy?" he asked warily. Tom looked at him contemplatively, a strange smirk slowly building in the corners of his lips.

"I think you will find we have just gotten ourselves a _reputation_. Those four will spread the word like fiendfyre we've become members of the art club. Soon, the entirety of Hogwarts will know."

"I don't get it," Harry said, frowning. "Why would being in the art club gain us a reputation?"

"Harry, I told you! I would only agree to join a group where I could do something worthwhile," Tom exclaimed impatiently, piercing Harry with an intent gaze. "The market for art in the magical world is _huge_. Well-known artists sell their paintings for thousands and thousands of galleons – they're filthy rich! That Leda character, I imagine he'll be a millionaire, if not a billionaire, even before we graduate in five years time."

"Oh," Harry breathed, relieved there was actually a logical explanation to why Tom had agreed to join the art club when he suggested it. "So you want to be an artist then, when you finish school?"

"No, I don't believe so... I agree it would be convenient, could I sell a few pieces. But that's not the main reason I want to learn how to paint."

When he didn't continue, Harry raised his brows questioningly. "What is, then?"

Tom leered at him challengingly, before apparently coming to the conclusion that telling him wouldn't hurt. "You've seen much of the paintings' magic here at Hogwarts," he said, shrugging. "They are great guards for one who wants to hide something. Passages and such. But also, if you make two paintings connected to one another it is possible to place them on different locations and have the inhabitant travel between the two of them, thus creating a small spy who can tell you all it hears on the other end. Very useful, for the right kind of wizard..."

Harry was just about to tell him exactly what he thought of such kinds of wizards when they stepped through the grand entrance to the castle and came face to face with two young Slytherin girls.

Eileen Prince was not what Harry had been expecting. If he had imagined the old, crocked lady in miniature, or his professor in female form, he was left disappointed. Before him stood a short, skinny little girl with ash-blonde hair cut into a boyishly short hairdo. She had a long face, and thick eyebrows, and her motions were twitchy, almost like that of a spider. She wasn't beautiful by any standards, as her son hadn't been either, but the same kind of charm she'd sported the last time Harry saw her was still there. She had a presence about her that oddly enough _made_ her look good. Her eyes were the same shade of deep black as Harry remembered, and the same charming smile that so often graced her features in 1992 slipped onto her lips as she in turn caught sight of the two boys standing in the doorway. She elbowed her blonde, blue eyed friend and they giggled quietly in understanding.

"Eileen Prince?" Harry asked carefully once the girls had stopped in front of them.

"The one and only," Eileen said with a childish grin and motioned to the girl at her side. "And this is Druella Rosier."

Druella blushed shyly and Harry scratched the back of his neck, nervous all of a sudden. "How do you do," he said, casting a quick glance at the bored looking boy at his side. "I'm Harry Potter, and-"

"We know!" Eileen said quickly, smiling brightly at him, looking almost admiring, Harry thought.

"Oh... alright," he said, shifting his weight apprehensively. This wasn't going as planned... "I need to tell you something," he said and Eileen brightened up even further, the brilliance of her smile challenging that of the sun itself.

"So you know of me, then? Am I famous? Oh, a lead singer? An actress? Do I own Gringotts or something?"

"No..." Harry said, swallowing thickly. Why was this so hard? He was saving her, wasn't he? "None of that... You see, I've come to warn you of something."

"Something's gonna happen? I can't believe it! I've heard so many lament over the fact you have nothing to tell them. But, me you've heard of!" she said with wide eyes, full of excitement.

"I have, but it isn't really something exciting," Harry said slowly. "It's a person you need to stay away from, actually... You see, in a few years, you will meet this man, a Muggle named Tobias Snape, and you will fall in love with him. Well, you can't! He's vile and... well, horrible. And he won't be a good husband for you."

Eileen laughed brightly, as though he had told her the joke of the year. "What, you've got to be joking! _Me_? Marrying a Muggle?" She was still giggling, shaking her head in denial. Druella was letting out a few half-hearted giggles as though in support, but was casting curious glances between Harry and her friend, as though she was more inclined to believe what they were being told than anything else.

"Eileen, please, you've got to listen to me!" Harry tried but the little girl only shook her head, avoiding his eyes. Feeling utterly helpless at her avoidance Harry stepped forwards, grabbing hold of her upper arms.

"Listen! I swear, I met you a month ago, and you were utterly miserable! You had a son, and you both had suffered for years under the abuse of your husband."

Eileen ripped herself out of Harry's hold, a dark flush colouring her long, otherwise pale face. Her whole body shaking with anger, she did not look pretty any more.

"SHUT IT!" she screeched, looking around her, as if searching for someone else listening in. "I will _not_ marry some lousy _M__uggle_," she hissed furiously and brushed passed him, Druella hot on her heels.

"That went well..." Tom drawled in utter boredom. Harry sighed deeply. No, indeed, it had not.

* * *

The following days Harry tried to catch Eileen's eye, trying to get a chance to be alone with her to explain the situation more carefully. She avoided him like the plague, though, and the weeks rolled by with him not being the least bit successful.

Tom rolled his eyes at him, finding him utterly ridiculous chasing after a _girl_ like that, and demanded even more of his attention than usual. Harry found himself hard pressed finding any alone time at all, and soon gave up fighting for freedom. He started zoning out for long periods of time, completely indifferent to the world around him.

It wasn't that he was bored or angry any more. It was rather a deep feeling of helpless pointlessness that had him feeling down. The reality of the loss of his previous life, his happy life, had finally crept up on him. He felt himself missing every single thing he'd once had – even being chased around by Filch and Mrs Norris after curfew. He wasn't happy any more. Nothing in his life seemed to go right. Except the euphoric sensation of finally having a family, nothing clicked with him. It was as if life itself had realized he wasn't supposed to be in this time at all and had turned on him completely.

A big part of his problems was Tom, of course, but there were other bits and pieces there as well, pulling him through misery. Eileen's rejection, but also Lora's, as she had become a bit stiff with him ever since his meltdown in the Gryffinpuff room, when Tom had claimed that he was anorexic. Well, alright, a _great_ deal of his problems originated from Tom. But still, Tom was the only fixed point in his life, he was always _there_, something that wasn't going away, and therefore felt _safe_. As the weeks rolled passed and Harry sank deeper and deeper into himself, Tom was the only person he actively interacted with out of his peers. Very few people spoke to him any more. Because he seemed to be ignoring them, even though he wasn't doing it on purpose, they ignored him right back.

It brought back a deep feeling of emptiness, of his life being meaningless. Not even Dumbledore's claim his life _did_ have a purpose meant something. He'd come to realize, by interacting with Serena and Eileen both, that that didn't really have a meaning either, because he _couldn't _help people. His life didn't mean anything, and he wasn't even supposed to be there.

It was like going back to the years before Hagrid came for him. The years of apathy, of being bullied daily, of an empty life. Of being locked into the cramped space under the stairs. Of nothingness.

Tom picked up on this, of course, and seemed to have mixed feelings about it. Harry would often catch him looking smug about having his dog so well trained and subdued, ready to answer to any of his becks and calls. On the other hand, Tom seemed more short-tempered than usual, as if the lack of fight Harry gave him made it _too_ easy. Not worth it.

Therefore, Harry imagined, Tom started doing things that he _knew_ should rile the other up. Like throwing insults at him in hushed voices, in places where he knew he couldn't retaliate. He had also taken to pulling the diary out at all sorts of times, scribbling in it, sometimes only playing around with it, throwing it about, waving it in his face, before putting it back into his book bag. All of it put Harry's teeth on edge and he was once again plotting how to get hold of the little black book that was the root of all of his problems.

And there he was, once again, standing in the Slytherin common room under the Cloak of Invisibility, trying to get a chance at sneaking up to the second year boys' dormitory. All because he hadn't been able to come up with any better plan. He'd had to coax Harold into lending him the cloak, of course, but had finally made it with the assurance he would eat his own hat if he lost it.

He had to be really stealthy to make it, but at last he found himself in front of Tom's four poster bed, at the end of his adventure. The book bag stood at the foot of the bedside table and he sneaked forwards slowly, tiptoeing over the dark floorboards, praying to Merlin they wouldn't creek on him. Then, he was there, at last, searching through the bag with one hand, casting quick glances at Tom's sleeping face to reassure himself.

Then! He had it! At last! His heart started beating faster, the adrenaline flowing through his veins. Now, he only had to make it out of the room and everything would be alright!

He arose swiftly, turned around, and found himself stuck. Something had clamped itself around his wrist, the hand which held the diary was stuck in place. And in clear view, Harry realized with a start. The cloak didn't cover it!

Then, he was pulled onto the bed behind him, a rough hand pressing itself against his mouth, efficiently quieting the startled yelp he'd been about to utter.

Then a purring voice hissed into his ear. "Hello Harry, you got what you came for? No? Such a shame."

He felt dread seep into every single pore of his body. This would not end well.

Tom soon had him stripped free of the Invisibility Cloak, examining it carefully under the dim light of his _lumos_ spell.

Harry's stomach turned to ice as he came to realize how gravely he'd blown it this time. Tom would not give the cloak back. Not a chance. All was lost.

He decided to do his best begging anyway, although he already knew it was a lost case. "Tom, please," he hissed under his breath, careful not to worsen the already bad situation by wakening the others. "Give it back. I'll do _anything_!"

"Anything?" Tom leered evilly, raising his brows challengingly. "But I already _have_ what will make you do _anything_, Harry."

"No, please," Harry begged, devastated by the fact he was nearly breaking down in tears. He bit his lip furiously. He wouldn't give that fucking bastard the satisfaction of seeing him cry. "What will I say to Harold?" he tried, voice wavering.

Tom smirked superciliously at him, that sadistic gleam shining bright in his otherwise black-looking eyes. "I'm sure that survival instinct of yours will tell you what to say..."

* * *

Harold had been livid when he found out his cloak had "been caught in the wind and disappeared without a trace into the forbidden forest". He was now giving Harry the silent treatment, pretty much like the most other people around, so there wasn't that big a change after all. However, Harry had an uncomfortable feeling he'd soon get tangled up in some master-plan prank of his brother's, and did his best to stay out of his way. Friday evening he went to bed early, not feeling well, not at all.

As Saturday came to he stayed in bed, the emptiness crushing him down, not allowing him to do _anything_. The only place which was safe was right here, in that warmth, a sanctuary in a flaming, painful hell of life. And it wasn't like there was anything else for him to get up for, no classes, no _anything_.

Sunday came as well, and Harry somewhere knew he had an art class to get to, but it didn't matter either, it was off-schedule after all.

Then Monday came, and he didn't find the strength to get out of bed that day either, despite knowing he had _actual_ classes to get to. There was just nothingness, emptiness. _Nothing._

* * *

_A/N: ...This took a while... Wow, this is dark. Well, it is hurt/comfort after all. Thank you for reading, subscribing and reviewing. And jj: there is only one Tom :) _

_Mischief managed! _


	7. Warm Me Up in a Nova's Glow

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Seven

_Warm Me Up in a Nova's Glow_

* * *

Silence.

Blessed silence.

He was alone, safe from the world, content in his cocoon of warmth.

He knew he should be up and about. When his dorm mates had got up this morning, making loud noises, asking him if he wanted to join them for breakfast, he'd known he should get up as well, accepting their invitation. But he hadn't, he hadn't said anything, and they had let him be, used to his silent treatment by now. It had become that way, but it wasn't what Harry wanted. Problem was, he didn't know _what_ it was he wanted, and therefore couldn't get it.

The only thing he had been searching for the last couple of days was calm. Peace. The same sort of peace he'd found by the river bend close to the worn down Spinner's End 8, where Snape had taken him after his imprisonment.

He'd been happy then. It had felt like he mattered.

Now, all that mattered was the nothingness that surrounded him. The feeling of being safe.

Other than being engulfed by the warmth of calm, his stomach had started to ache. The last thing he'd been eating was the small plate of dinner he'd had on Friday afternoon before he'd gone to bed. Before finding solitude. He was distantly wondering if he'd get hungry enough to leave the bed, or if his body and mind would prefer to starve.

He had been walking around minimally, visiting the toilet from time to time. He'd been drinking a few glasses of water then, but nothing more than that had reached his stomach in three days.

He was constantly reminded of the last couple of days at the Dursleys, of the days he could barely recall. He'd been out of it then, dead to the world. Now, he still had some form of consciousness left, enabling him to form thoughts and dig himself deeper down in misery.

He was on the edge of desperation, and as it was, would give anything to be able to talk to someone, anyone, about what had happened to him. The thought of giving in to his desire and not giving a damn about what Tom would do with the diary as a consequence was what had occupied the main part of his thought process the last couple of weeks. His isolation and being constantly left to his own mind had helped the thoughts along, and it had become an obsession, every time someone entered the room, to tell them. To give in.

But he hadn't. Wouldn't let himself.

In another sense, it wouldn't matter what he did, not any more. If he stayed here, like this, he would perish. If he broke the rules of his messed up relationship with Tom, he would perish.

If he told someone about his troubles they would go to a teacher, immediately, and they would try to _talk_ to Tom, make him see reason. He wouldn't. And if the teachers decided to punish him or expel him, either way, it would not matter for he would destroy the diary _and_ the cloak as a result.

But doing nothing was an active choice as well, Harry knew.

Suddenly, as though an answer to his prayers, there was a solid presence by the end of his bed, which was odd for he hadn't heard anyone enter. The mattress dipped to the side as someone sat themselves down, a warm hand laying itself onto his forehead in a gesture of concern. He opened up his eyes slowly.

It was Charlus.

He looked really worried.

It made Harry feel sick with guilt.

"What's wrong, Harry?" came a soft voice. He almost bristled then, but held his tongue.

"Please, Harry, I can't help you if you don't let me."

Every word felt like a rip in his aching stomach, a huge lump forming itself inside of his throat, his breath started coming out in short gasps.

A terrible sob ripped itself from out of him, without warning, forming a mere crack into a castle of glass. Another sob escaped through his dry lips, starting a chain reaction of ripples building up in its foundation, before it exploded into tiny pieces, and he was crying.

Sobs shaking his entire body.

He cried because there was an answer. A way out. He could tell someone – someone who would do his best to help, that would understand the severity of the situation and don't push Tom over the edge. He _could_ be saved! He didn't need to perish. Charlus was there. Everything would be alright. He was head boy, he could help Harry confront Tom privately, leaving no time for the other to do anything about it.

That thought brought life and awareness to his mind and he realized Charlus had picked him up to hold him against his chest, caressing his back in gentle strokes. Taking the blinding pain of misery away. God it felt good.

They stayed like that, cradling each other, Harry overwhelmed by the comforting to the point of going completely limp in the hold.

Then, he started talking. Telling his cousin about _everything_. About the diary and what Dumbledore had told him. Of how Tom had reacted and what he'd had to go through in the last couple of weeks.

When everything was out in the open he was left with a strong sense of release, of relief, of cleanse. He trusted Charlus to help him with this.

The hand on his back had gone from rubbing circles to clenching at the fabric of his pyjamas, as the entire severity of the situation was revealed. Charlus' breath came out in pants and Harry suspected he was discretely crying, although he wasn't seated in a position from where he could tell for sure.

"Oh God," he gasped out, holding onto Harry's body even more fiercely. "I wish I'd known, I... This is so... You've been life-threatened, and I haven't done a thing, I... I'm so sorry! I'm sorry," and he kept on rambling out broken pleads of remorse, as if it was _his_ fault. Harry couldn't take it, but put a hand on his mouth to silence him, twisting out of the tight grip.

"No! Charlus, don't! You couldn't have known! You had _no_ part in this. So stop blaming yourself, it's not your fault. It's mine! Completely mine, I shouldn't have trusted him from the start and-"

Now it was Charlus' time to exclaim a loud "No!", shaking his head furiously. "You can't blame yourself, Harry. Everything originates from _Tom_, it is entirely his fault. Alright? He is _not_ a good person. And he needs to be put down."

"A-alright," Harry stuttered, swallowing thickly. "What will we have to do? We can't tell the teachers, or he'll burn the diary..."

"No, it has to be something swift," Charlus agreed, frowning deeply, plotting quite obviously not something which came naturally with him.

"I think I have an idea," Harry said hesitantly.

* * *

Harry eyed the bowl of soup in front of him, wishing it to be something more fulfilling for his first meal in three days. But he knew, and so Charlus had lectured, he had to be careful not to overwhelm his stomach at first.

The first spoonful slipped down his throat easily, warming his entire body, setting itself comfortingly into the depths of his stomach. It tasted heavenly.

The irony of the meal had not escaped him – a hot bowl of soup and a big glass of milk. It made him sneer in self disgust. Why did he always have to be nursed back to health?

He only had time for three more spoonfuls before someone seated themselves next to him, just as planned. He'd only had to show his face in the open for the hunter to pounce.

"Where have you been?" Tom hissed furiously into his ear.

"You're not supposed to be here," Harry said softly. "If a teacher sees you, you'll end up with detention."

Tom just scoffed quietly, glancing up towards the nearly empty head table, and raised his eyebrows in challenge. "You better hurry finishing that soup then... Where's the rest of your lunch? You're not only eating soup are you? Keep this up and I'll actually believe the claims of your anorexia..."

Harry just smiled slightly and kept on sipping from his spoon in slow, careful motions.

"Now, quit the silent act – where were you?"

"Something came up," Harry murmured, weighing his words carefully. He needed Tom to swallow the bait without seeing the hook first.

"And what is that something?" Tom asked in a sweet tone that sounded concerned in nature, but promised certain pain to Harry's ears.

"It's private..."

"Not. To. Me." Tom hissed out, not capable of hiding his malicious expression any longer. His façade was crumbling, although he was fighting to keep the mask on, Harry could tell. "Aren't best friends supposed to be able to tell each other _anything_?" he said with a bit more control, quite obviously referring to the plea Harry had uttered in desperation four days ago, as well as the fact he had in his possession that would make him do _anything_. Harry let out a huff of air to calm himself, it wouldn't do to blow it _now_. Nearly there...

"Alright! But I can't tell you here... Come on..." And with that he arose from his short, unfulfilling lunch and made for the entrance hall, Tom hot on his heels. He sneaked a quick peek at the clock over the doorway as they passed through, reading half past one. _Perfect_!

He tried to keep his face neutral despite his triumph as he led the other into the west wing and into one of the guest rooms on the right side of the corridor. He held up the door for Tom, who entered without suspicion, and closed the door after them.

"Tom, why don't you have a seat?"

The Slytherin boy whipped around, finding himself face to face with the seventh year head boy – Charlus Potter. He gulped visibly before looking down as if nervous, breathing out a "Yes, sir", and sitting down. Harry didn't buy it, but, to his horror, he saw his cousin's confidence waver slightly.

"Harry has told me everything," Charlus said sternly and Harry groaned inwards. Being that blunt, Tom had no reason to hesitate, he'd instantly know exactly what the game plan looked like.

"Would you kindly hand the diary over, and I will not retail this conversation to the teachers, even though I ought to."

Harry watched wide eyed, pulse hammering, as Tom smiled serenely. That kind of smile which would soften the feelings of even the most cold-hearted, Harry knew – he'd seen it happen, several times as Tom manipulated those around him.

"Of course," he said and reached inside his book bag. Charlus looked relieved, and lowered his guard, obviously only seeing a naughty little boy before him. He didn't stand a chance.

Tom whipped out his wand and shouted "_petrificus totalus"_, the spell hitting its target instantly, all in a time range of 2,5 seconds.

Harry pulled out his wand as well but was disarmed by a swift "_expelliarmus_" before he could even think up a spell to retaliate with.

"My, my, you are getting desperate, Harry," Tom singsonged, while pulling the shiny fabric of the Invisibility Cloak out of his book bag. He threw it over Harry's stiff in fear body, hissing a vicious threat into his ear. "One sound and I'll lose concentration. I have never done this spell before, you _don't_ want me to mess it up."

He then hit the spot where he knew Harry stood with another full-body-bind-hex and stepped over to Charlus' frozen body. He stared at him, in an eerily similar fashion to how a snake watches its prey the moments before it strike, and raised his wand in preparation. Harry's ears were ringing, fright high in his throat, palms sweaty.

"_Obliviate_" Tom said swiftly and a bluish green beam of light erupted from the tip of the wand, hitting Charlus square in the forehead. His frantically staring, dark blue eyes glazed over for a couple of moments, and Tom waved his wand again, murmuring "_finite_" under his breath, and Charlus' body was released from its frozen state.

The head boy blinked a couple of times, looking utterly lost. Harry wondered with desperation what Tom had done to him. But he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't be seen. He was a helpless observer.

"No, I'm sorry, but I have not seen Harry today," Tom said in an apologetic voice. "Actually, I haven't a clue where he has been all weekend. If you find him, would you let me know?"

Charlus just nodded to himself, murmuring "Alright, of course... That's what I thought..." before walking towards the door. Then, he turned around again, a deep frown grazing his features. "It's strange, don't you think? First professor Slughorn tells me he hasn't been to his morning potions class today, then Leda tells me he wasn't at the art class yesterday either, and now you're telling me you haven't seen him for, what, three days? Well, _where_ is he then?"

"I don't know," Tom said, the perfect image of a worried friend. "Have you asked his dorm mates? Maybe they know..."

"Oh, how odd, I haven't," Charlus said with sudden relief, as if Tom had not told him something obvious. "I'll go do that... I'll do that..."

And then he was gone. Out the door, leaving his cousin behind, as if nothing had happened.

Tom stalked over, ripped the Cloak of Invisibility off of Harry's stiff body and waved his wand again, murmuring another "_finite_" as he did so.

"WHAT THE HELL?" Harry shouted as he was released. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?"

"What did _I_ do?" Tom snarled, shoving his wand into the other's neck in a vicious motion, pressing the tip into the skin painfully. "What did _you_ do? DO YOU THINK THIS A GAME?"

Harry couldn't help it, he was crying. Crying of pain, of hurt. It was over. His last chance, spoiled! He wouldn't get help. There was no way out, he was _trapped_.

"I _know_ it's a game! It's a game to _you_. You enjoy this! You fucking LIKE THIS! YOU BASTARD!"

"You're breaking the rules," Tom hissed, his eyes gleaming with unveiled anger. "You know you can't break the rules, Harry."

"I DON'T CARE!" he bellowed, violent sobs breaking out like living beings out of his scarred body. "I don't care any more..." he rasped out, closing his eyes, wanting the peace of his sanctuary back. But also that was gone.

Tom snarled furiously, snatched the wand away, stalked across the room in a frenzy and turned it on the guest bed standing innocently in the corner of the small room. "_Incendio_" he intoned and the entire mattress caught fire. Smoking flames of yellow, orange and dark blue in the hottest middle. Harry's eyes hurt looking at it.

Then, from out of his robe pocket, Tom pulled the little black book, holding it up for Harry to see clearly in the flicking light of the burning bed.

"You care," he stated simply and held the diary up as if to throw it into the flames.

The black surface of the cover glistened as if it were made out of a fluid material. As if it was deep water, or black ice, melted at the top coat. The golden numbers imprinted stood out like glaring sparks, like a brilliant sun on a clear blue sky.

The smallness of it surprised him. How could something so little matter so much?

Or did it? Wasn't it all pointless by now?

It would soon be burnt to ashes after all.

He found himself trusting Tom. Trusting him to throw it. He _wanted_ him to do it, to end this hell of his, to make it all stop. He _wanted _it.

But Tom didn't do it, he only stood there, a defiant look in his eyes. A challenge. He wanted Harry to take the first step.

So he did, he stepped forwards. He walked all the way so that he stood next to the other, staring deep into the flames. But Tom still didn't do it.

Harry breathed out deeply in relief as calm settled over his entire being.

He looked to his right, finding Tom staring openly at him, not looking angry any longer, only intent.

"No, I don't," Harry simply stated.

Quickly, he snatched the diary away, aimed, and threw it into the flames himself.

He watched it go in utter detachment, as it arched high in flight for a couple of heartbeats, as if in slow motion, and then started to lose height. Falling, falling...

The moment it hit fire Tom let out a horrifying shout of utter agony, ringing between the walls, sounding like the terrified howl of a wounded beast. He looked frightened, eyes big and gleaming, mouth wide open, chest heaving frantically.

He was moving, tearing at the air around him, making his way as if under deep water.

But he didn't move towards the fire. He did not seem to be after the diary.

He moved towards Harry.

He threw himself at him, clawing at the back of his robes, nails digging in deep, mouth letting out broken whimpers of "no, no, no".

Harry watched all this in complete indifference. Soon, it would be over. He would get hauled back through time and disappear, as if he never existed. That thought brought a memory to the front of his mind, making his smile at the morbid irony.

He was sitting in the kitchen at Privet Drive 4, staring into the evasive eyes of his aunt. And he said:

"_Aunt Petunia, please, before they come back – let me get my stuff under the stairs. I'll leave and stay away, I promise! I won't bother you any more and you can keep on living your lives as if I never happened."_

It felt like a lifetime ago, but in reality, it was only two months back in time. _His_ time anyway. Well, he'd get his wish now, wouldn't he? And what more was, the Dursleys wouldn't be able to get theirs – for they had never happened either!

It made him laugh. The pointlessness of it all!

He watched the diary burn to crisps, and laughed. Loudly and merrily. Tom dug his nails in deeper.

And the diary was gone. A little pile of ash.

They stared at it, lying innocently inside of the roaring flames.

But nothing happened.

Nothing!

Tom loosened his hold slightly, Harry stopped laughing. It wasn't funny any more...

Tom let go of him completely and stepped back.

Harry only had the time to let out a quiet "What the-" before a slim fist connected with his jaw, and he flew backwards, down to the floor.

Tom stood over him, shaking with rage, panting heavily, eyes staring widely. "YOU SAPHEAD!" he bellowed, kneeling down to grab at Harry's shoulders, shaking him like a rag doll. "YOU IMBECILE! YOU... YOU..."

He was so angry he didn't seem to find any words. He kept on shaking, although he was losing strength. It didn't take much for Harry to flip them around, so that he was the one pinning Tom to the floor instead, holding his wrists in a vice-like grip.

"_Me_?" he hissed out in a deadly voice. "You're blaming _me_? No! _You_, Tom! You did this. It's all _you_!"

"I didn't mean to," Tom gasped out, as if he had a hard time breathing. "I didn't want this, it wasn't my intention. I just... I just..."

"YOU JUST WHAT?" Harry bellowed down at the pale white boy. "What, you just though that I would suck it up and follow you around, like a fucking lovesick puppy? After all you did to me?"

"I just wanted you," Tom grunt out, that infuriating glint back in his dark green eyes. "I just wanted what is mine."

"_What_," Harry hissed out in disbelief. "I'm _not yours_!"

At that moment, they both realized the bed was still very much in flames, as it gave a sudden roar and the wall behind it caught fire as well.

They flew to their feet, Harry pulling Tom with him, hands still holding his wrists tightly. He hurried to let go when he realized this, and followed the other's lead, picking up their wands lying discarded next to each other on the floor.

Then he just stood there, not sure what to do. Tom whipped his wand instantly, aiming at the heart of the fire, intoning "_deflammo_" as he did so. Little parts of the flames were extinguished immediately, but other parts were spreading all over the walls, stretching upwards towards the low ceiling.

Tom looked back at him, panic written all over his pale face, clearly wanting help.

Harry swallowed deeply and pointed his wand to the fire-filled ceiling. Trying and imitate Tom's wand movement, he yelled "_deflammo_", but nothing happened. He was just about to yell out they needed to get out of there when the door burst open and a yellow-robed Dumbledore stormed inside. Harry breathed out a sigh of relief – they were safe.

Their professor took the situation in with clever blue eyes and simply swished his wand, not saying a word, and the flames were put out.

Silence ringed eerily as they all looked at each other for seconds that felt like hours.

"Will you kindly follow me to my office, gentlemen?" Dumbledore said solemnly. He looked deeply disappointed.

* * *

Dumbledore stared down at them from behind his desk. They were sitting in front, on two wooden chairs, knowing they were in for it.

"So," Dumbledore said, waving his hand in an airy gesture. "You decided to redecorate our guest rooms. Well, I must admit, I once set one of Hogwarts' beds on fire myself in my youth... But I have a feeling that, as opposed to my own experience, this was not done by accident. You were fighting, were you not?"

Harry felt the bruise on his jaw burn in attention, the whole area around it aching painfully. "We were, sir," he admitted sullenly. There was no point in denying it.

"Ah," said Dumbledore, nodding encouragingly. "And, what, if I may ask, were the two of you fighting _about_?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but cut himself off abruptly. He realized the fact that he held Tom's entire future in his hands. If he told Dumbledore what had _actually _happened, there was no question about it, Tom would get expelled, immediately.

No matter how much he hated the other, he didn't wish that fate on anyone. He couldn't bear to be the reason Tom would never be able to use a wand again. Therefore, Harry decided firmly against it.

"I'm sorry, sir, but it isn't something we can tell you about. Or anyone... It's a secret."

He saw, in the corner of his eye, how Tom's head snapped sideways to look at him in surprise. Dumbledore looked at him too, but in half-suspicious contemplation. Then, he nodded slowly, eyes bouncing between the two second years before him.

"I see," he said, twinning his fingers together under his chin, looking thoughtful. "Peculiar things, secrets. There are those that can capture you, and then, there are others that can set you free..."

Then, the goofy old man smiled serenely, and nodded to them. "You will both serve detention with me this evening, at seven o'clock. Don't be late."

"Yes, sir," both boys said compliantly and hurried to exit the office.

"Oh, and Harry," Dumbledore called after them before the door closed. "Make sure to visit the infirmary, when you can. I'm sorry to say you are starting to look a bit swollen..."

"Oh, alright. I mean- Yes, sir," Harry said and shut the door on his smiling head of house.

Tom and he looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Harry almost felt shy in front of the other, as if there was too much unspoken going on for them to know how to proceed.

Making a swift decision, Harry turned on his heel and started walking deeper into the first floor corridor, until he came out onto a balcony, stretching all around the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower, with a great view over the training grounds. He knew Tom had followed him, for he could feel a presence at his back, before the other came forwards to stand next to him, leaning against the railing, looking out at the clouded sky above them.

"I'm sorry," Tom decided to break the silence with, after a great deal of lost moments of them just standing there. "I never wanted you to get suicidal."

"Wow, and here I was, thinking you 'weren't capable of being sorry', or how did you word it?" Harry said, rolling his eyes, not in the mood to accept such a weak apology – especially since he, as always, doubted Tom's sincerity.

Tom let out a heavy breath, as if fighting to keep his cool. He probably was, Harry mused.

"I'm not supposed to be here," he decided to reveal. "I have no purpose here."

Tom's eyes narrowed at him dangerously. "No? Then I'll _make_ you have that purpose you find so bloody important – you're not going anywhere!"

Harry narrowed his eyes right back. "Because you think that I am yours, or what-not? Psycho."

"You _are_ mine," Tom said, grabbing hold of Harry's left wrist possessively. "You are my grandson. I have a claim on you."

Harry stared at him in disbelieving astonishment. Then it all clicked together, as if he'd been missing a key part to a huge puzzle of reason. The obsession with having him around, the weird questions about Lily Evans, the strange looks he'd got, as if the other was comparing their features. Tom believed he was his grandfather – that he was the father of his mother...

"You're wrong," he simply stated, feeling a bit light headed and with an absurd desire to laugh.

"Am I?" Tom hissed out. "Then how do you explain our similarities? We could be twins! Even Ledford called us Gemini! And then, there's _that_..."

"What?" Harry snapped impatiently.

"This!" Tom hissed slowly.

Harry, who was way beyond losing patience turned around to leave, but found himself stuck, Tom's hand still curled possessively around his wrist.

"Would you _stop_ being such a smart-ass and get to the point?" he snapped, trying to shake the other off.

"I _know_ you know, Harry. You've revealed yourself, a long time ago! The first night we met, as a matter of fact. I had you figured out from the start. I _know_ your secret, Harry."

He inched closer and leaned in to hiss into his ear. "You're a Parselmouth, just like me."

Harry sighed deeply. What in the bloody hell? "Right, and _what _is a parcel mouth then? You think I carry mail amongst my teeth or something?"

Tom looked at him as if he was a walrus escaped from a circus. "What are you, stupid? A _P__arsel_mouth! One who can talk to snakes."

"Oh," Harry said a bit perplexed. "So? I didn't know there was a term for it, but well, yeah. I've only done it once, though. I bet loads of people around here could do it."

"No, they can't," Tom said, smirking superciliously at him. "It's _very_ uncommon. I've only heard of you and me so far, being able to speak it, but I've read up on it, and it's only the descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself who are Parselmouths. Which means – we have to be related!"

Ignoring the being related comment Harry sighed in defeat. "Okay, fine, I'm a Parselmouth... How did you find out? I haven't gone around trying and talk to snakes lately."

"I _told _you, I found out the first night we met! We were sitting at the Slytherin table, remember? And I hissed under my breath. I think I said something about the diary and about how you'd been reading it. And then, you not only understood it, you actually answered me! You weren't even supposed to hear anything else than me whispering something to myself, but you did! So I tried it again, of course, it could have been just a lucky guess after all. So I told you, in the snake language, about how I didn't need friends and all that rot. And again, you heard it and answered me! I've known ever since, and I've said things in parseltongue to you from time to time. You've actually answered me a couple of times as well!"

"But... I don't get it," Harry said, feeling faint despite the fresh air he was breathing. "How can I have spoken a different language without knowing it? I haven't heard _anything _else than usual English."

"It _sounds_ like your mother language when you hear it, but it's slightly different, if you know what to look for." Tom said, with that infuriating superior leer placed back onto his handsome face. "Try it! Pretend I am a snake and say something."

Intrigued, Harry tried and picture the boa constrictor he'd set free in the Muggle zoo, and hissed out "Like this?" experimentally.

"Yes," Tom hissed back, and now that Harry _knew_ it was snake language, he noticed the slight difference he'd been told to look for – a faint hissing quality to Tom's voice as he spoke.

"So now, you understand why it is you can be nothing else than my grandson. We've got to be sharing blood, otherwise you wouldn't be a Parselmouth."

"I'm _not_ your grandchild, Tom," Harry insisted tiredly and held up his right hand when the other made to start arguing. "I have proof."

Tom crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows in challenge, as if saying "do your worst".

"First off, I've seen my grandfather – not in person, but in that photo album I told you about-"

"That is not proof," Tom cut him off, looking irritated. "You told me your aunt looked nothing like your mother – it could be your grandmother was unfaithful with me. I don't really see myself having any sort of relationship anyway. It is highly probable."

Harry sighed deeply and shook his head. "No, that still can't be the case, Tom. There is more. Last year, a few days after I'd received the Invisibility Cloak for a Christmas gift," he glared at the other as he said this, only getting a stony expression in return. "I went exploring and stumbled over a mirror. The mirror of Erised – it shows you your heart's most desperate desire. What I saw was myself surrounded by my family. You weren't there. My _real _grandfather – Edward Evans – _was_."

"That doesn't prove anything!" Tom exclaimed snappishly. "You'd already seen what your supposed grandfather looked like and therefore desired him to be there, amongst the others!"

"No, I don't think it works like that," Harry said, frowning at Tom's stubbornness. "What I wished for was to be surrounded by my _real_ family. The mirror wouldn't have made something like that up when I wished for it to be real that badly."

"But you don't know, do you?" Tom's face had closed off, his indifferent mask firmly in place. He would not change his mind, no matter what proof Harry gave him.

"No... I don't _know_ know, exactly," Harry admitted softly, and looked away. "But I'm _not_ your grandson," he insisted.

"Lies," Tom simply stated, and they stood silent for many minutes, again, not knowing what to say.

"Well, I guess we were wrong," Harry said, breaking the heavy silence. "Destroying the diary didn't kill me after all..."

"...No," Tom agreed silently, finally letting Harry's wrist go as he made to re-enter the castle. "Lets have dinner. It's nearly five..."

"Guess we missed our classes..." Harry said, following him inside, looking forwards to finally have a proper meal again.

* * *

_A/N: There is, apparently, more to write that I anticipated... So I extended my plan with two chapters. Let's put them to good use! _

_And thank you for your support! _

_Mischief managed! _


	8. Drop Me Down to the Dream Below

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Eight

_Drop Me Down to the Dream Below_

* * *

Things had been tense between the two boys after that day. There was too much left out in the open, but at the same time, too much hidden beneath a surface of doubt. Harry didn't know what to make of the other any more.

He was so used to Tom being a manipulative, self-serving bastard, it was hard to tell whether he'd been sincere during their fight or if it had been another one of his schemes. Either, he was a cold-hearted sadistic robot boy with no warm feelings what so ever: _or_, he was a very lonely twelve years old who wanted love but did not know how to ask for it.

The Tom Harry had seen during their fight leaned towards the latter – why else would he be so obsessed with having him around, if not craving his affection? He'd stressed over and over his belief they were family. Why would he do that if it wasn't something he craved for?

He'd once told him how he'd always wanted a family. It had been something he used as a weapon against Harry, he knew, but what if there was a deeper meaning behind it? What if it was the truth? Twisted and turned to suit his needs, of course, but still – there was a chance, however slim, that that was what Tom _actually_ wanted. Companionship. Friendship. Familiarity.

But then again, there was a chance that it wasn't. Tom had fooled him before, he could be doing it again.

But as long as nothing was for certain, Harry couldn't let it go. He wanted to figure the other out, learn to know the _real_ Tom. They'd known each other for nearly two months now, and still, Harry could not say he'd ever met the real person behind all the layers of masks and personas Tom carried around. He was a complete mystery.

He still hated his guts, of course, but he also held a weird sort of fascination for him. He was just so odd – like a wild beast no-one had heard of before.

Harry was well aware he had a knack for mysteries. As soon as he started suspecting there to be a bigger plot behind things, everything else mattered less and less. At the first whiff of a riddle, he became obsessed.

That had been the case last year, when he'd obsessed over the Philosopher's Stone, Snape, Voldemort, the Mirror of Erised... And also this year with the diary – a mystery that made him end up having the adventure of his life, for the better and for the worse...

And now, the mystery was Tom Riddle.

He knew he really should let this go, forget about Tom altogether. But he couldn't.

Besides, that little bastard still had the Invisibility Cloak in his possession, hidden somewhere Harry didn't know. If he wanted it back, he'd have to keep playing the game. Which, on a different level, suited his needs well, since without Tom and his assurance that he'd give Harry a reason to live, he'd be lost in misery again – and he didn't want that.

It scared him to no end what he'd been about to do to himself. He'd had a lot of bad things happening to him – nothing even began to compare with the indifferent coldness of accepting defeat and attempting to take your own life. That _definitely_ did not need to happen again!

So they kept on with the charade – looking like best friends to the outer world, but plotting against each other underneath the surface.

They'd have their classes, with or without each other for company. They'd eat meals, sneaking peeks at each other from over the house tables when they believed themselves not to be seen. Some evenings they'd spend in the Slytherdor room, reading, chatting and sometimes using the stage in the corner for mock wizarding duels, when it wasn't in use of the duelling clubs that was.

Other evenings they'd spend in the art club room, practising their painting, sometimes in the company of Serena, who went there much more often than they did. Leda seemed to live there permanently, for he was always there in his corner, working on art piece after art piece, but never speaking or acknowledging anyone else.

But it all was normal, like it had been the previous weeks before _T__he Breakdown_.

Harry could tell already in the beginning of that week Tom was after something. He'd sometimes look at him as if he was about to speak, reveal what which he was plotting and was immensely proud of. But then, he'd change his mind in the last moment, as if he judged it too soon to reveal whatever it was.

It made Harry both wary and intrigued, for he suspected it was something that would lead him closer to finding out who the person hiding underneath _really_ was.

That Sunday, three days before All Hallows' Evening, Tom decided to finally reveal what had occupied his mind the past week. They were sitting in the club room, having just finished their art class of the week, when Tom scooted closer and spoke to him in a hushed voice.

"Malfoy made fun of me this morning."

Harry sighed deeply. Out of all the boys Tom shared a dormitory with, he seemed to abhor Abraxas Malfoy the most. Harry didn't know what had happened between them, but it was obvious they'd had some sort of power play the year before. Usually, the group of boys only glared at the odd one in the mix, sometimes they murmured insults between themselves. Other times some of them decided to do something drastic. It usually was Malfoy. It always put Tom in a horrible mood.

"That wasn't nice of him," Harry murmured and kept on painting, although he admitted it was a challenge when the bloody rabbit wouldn't sit still and let itself be coloured.

"Those dimwits finally caught up on the fact I don't get mail. As in ever. They think my family hates me."

"Why don't you just tell them you live in an orphanage and be done with it?" Harry asked in a tired voice, trying to intercept the rabbit with the brush as it skipped away towards the forest in the other end of the picture.

"What, and make them have a field day with the fact I not only have no parents at all but also live with muggles like some lousy Mudblood? No thank you," Tom said, shaking his head irritatedly. Harry narrowed his eyes at him, ignoring what happened on his canvas for the time being.

"The term is Muggleborn, Tom."

"Whatever, different word, same thing. No, what they need is to be put in their place. They need to learn who holds the most power around here. Apparently, being at the top of every class isn't enough for them... Well, they'll learn. We'll show them."

"_We_?" Harry asked in suspicion. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like this. Tom just smirked at him and leaned away, starting to clean up his space and put things back onto their shelves.

Harry sighed and started to put his things away as well, which caught the attention of Serena at his side. "You're done with the picture?" she asked kindly.

"No, not yet... But Tom's in one of his moods... Better not push him over the edge if I don't want to turn my life into a living hell," Harry said, trying to laugh it off, but the truth behind the words not really letting him.

Serena pieced him with a compassionate look, sneaking peeks at Tom, standing by the shelves, sorting paint brushes. "I don't understand how you put up with him. I couldn't do it," she said in a hushed voice.

Harry looked at her in astonishment. Was it possible Serena was one of the very few not under Tom's spell?

"What do you mean? Has he been mean to you?" he asked carefully.

"No," Serena said, shaking her head slowly, "it's more of a feeling I get whenever he's around. He reminds me too much of my father..."

"Your father?" Harry asked in confusion.

"Orpheus Melpomene, well he's-"

"Wait!" Harry exclaimed, holding his hands up, halting her mid-sentence. "Orpheus Melpomene, as in the Minister for Magic?"

Serena smiled at him in good humour. "Oh, you didn't know? Yes, he is my father. He seems nice, doesn't he?"

"Well, yeah, he does. I've heard a lot good about him, from the newspapers and such. And my... my mum... she has mentioned a few good things he's done from time to time in her letters."

"Of course you have," Serena said and pushed a stray wisp of copper hair behind her right ear. "That's the kind of person he'd like to be seen as. He wears masks too... He doesn't like people finding out what's hidden beneath... I think you should be careful, being around Riddle that much. Sometimes, it's better not knowing..." she finished lamely, turning away as Tom came to stand at Harry's side, looking impatient.

They made their way to the great hall and had lunch, Tom by himself and Harry in the company of Lora and her dorm mates, the dark angel-like Bree Applebee and the sturdy, thick set Rowan Bott.

The three girls included him in a furious discussion about wither their Quidditch team stood a chance against Slytherin the upcoming match on the 11th November. Hufflepuff had won against Ravenclaw the first match of the year (a game which Tom and Harry had watched from the Hufflepuff stands as none of them would agree to join the other's home stands) which meant the badgers was in the lead with 220 points against the eagles' 50.

To get in the lead one had to beat the badgers' score, and that meant the winners had to score more than 7 goals before their seeker caught the snitch. Rowan and Lora believed there to be no doubt about it, Gryffindor would win hands down. Harry and Bree doubted they would be able to keep a level head and drag the game out long enough to score enough goals. They all agreed the upcoming match would be an exciting one.

Exiting the great hall, walking towards Tom waiting for him outside, Harry caught sight of Eileen – and she was alone! He hurried to intercept her before she could slither any closer to the Slytherin table.

"Eileen," he said, smiling at the short girl who merely narrowed her eyes at him. "Would you stop avoiding me and let me explain things to you? I didn't mean to tick you off, I merely wanted to help."

"You're _not_ helping, Potter," she hissed at him in a low voice, trying to slip around his body blocking her way. "If it hasn't caught your notice, I am a Pure-blood witch – I can _not_ afford to have a rumour going on about me running off with some _M__uggle_ in the future. Have you any idea how my parents would react to that? Druella's already snitched to the other girls my year – it won't be long until the entirety of Hogwarts know. And this," she gestured between Harry's chest and her own, "is _not_ helping. So _back off_!"

And with that she stormed off, apparently finding it not worth fighting Harry over entering the great hall, but instead having her lunch in the Gryffinpuff room.

Harry had a half-mind following her, but then Tom appeared at his side, looking _very_ annoyed. Someone wasn't having a good day, Harry judged, as the other caught his wrist in a tight grip and dragged him off to the peaceful Ravenpuff room.

Once there Harry seated himself by the grand oak tree, leaning against it and enjoying the calm around him, the branches of the tree swaying merrily in the magical breeze, the forever shining stars twinkling gently. Tom sat down next to him, pulling at the grass strands furiously.

"You _that_ annoyed with what Malfoy said to you?" Harry asked cautiously.

"No," Tom murmured, giving him a look, "he'll get what's coming for him, soon enough."

"Alright," Harry said warily, trying not to ruffle Tom's very sensitive feathers. "Is there something else bothering you?"

Tom looked like he'd swallowed a lemon, he was sneering that badly, and kept pulling at the grass beside him. "It's just... I don't get you! This obsession you have with _girls_! What could you possibly find interesting about them? Every time I see you interact with someone, it's a girl – at least lately!"

"What's wrong with girls?" Harry asked, frowning deeply.

"It's just that! They're _girls_, Harry! Only girls! They're inferior, they don't matter! There's nothing to gain from interacting with them. They're of no other use than... To be used!"

"_What_?" Harry exclaimed in disbelief. What the hell? "Are you kidding me? What are you, some sort of sexist?"

"What do you mean, sexist? It's simple facts! Women are weaker and less worth than men, everyone knows it, well except... Don't tell me you're a feminist, Harry," Tom hissed at him, way passed annoyed now.

Harry just stared at him in disbelief. What was he on about? But of course men weren't better than women, they were just as good. He hadn't really thought about it before, it seemed so self-evident. Natural. Did that make him a feminist?

"Well, I don't know," he said, frowning at the other. "If thinking girls aren't any different than boys then, yeah, I guess I am a feminist."

"I don't believe this," Tom grunt out and started glaring off in the distance, looking like he was about to explode with frustration.

"Well I don't believe you!" Harry exclaimed heatedly. "How can you possibly believe girls matter less when you've seen them do the exact same things boys do around here? Every spell we learn, every potion we brew, it doesn't matter if it's a boy or a girl – everyone can do it! I'll let you know before I came here, one of my best friends was a girl, and she was better at magic than anyone else in my year."

"Oh listen to you," Tom snapped and pierced him with the furious glare he'd averted moments before, "coming to their defence like this. You know why? Because they _need_ it. They are _weak_ Harry, they can't take care of themselves. They are not a force to be reckoned with! And I'm not talking about what they _can_ do, but what they actually _do_! They're of no other use than to serve their betters. It's in their nature."

Harry flew to his feet, outraged by what he was hearing. He couldn't believe it! Was this another one of Tom's colourful opinions or was this actually what people thought at this time of age? "You're wrong!" he yelled, stretching out a hand to point accusingly at the other. "And I'll prove it!"

"You can't prove something that isn't correct!" Tom said in a mocking tone of voice, actually laughing at him as if to prove how ridiculous his beliefs were. Well, Harry disagreed. Strongly.

"Exactly," Harry hissed out, glaring down at Tom from his superior height. "Which is why I will succeed."

Then, he stormed off, leaving his pale, shaking in fury, friend behind.

* * *

Tuesday, the 31st October, and the last class of the day. As Harry walked the stone-walled corridors of Hogwarts he had to duck constantly, as large groups of giant bats swarmed all over the place.

They were conjured decorations for the festivities of All Hallows' Evening, which would be celebrated later that night. In every classroom Harry had had his classes in that day, the bats had zoomed around, joined by floating, gloating, carved pumpkin-heads that were yelling obscenities to each other as well as to the students.

He had also caught sight of Peeves, floating about in the corridors, dressed up as the Grim Reaper with scythe in hand, sneaking up on the teachers and whispering things into their ears that made them jump in fright. Poor Professor Binns had almost been scared to death when the poltergeist suddenly had appeared during his history lesson and dropped a large spider onto his balding head. Harry had laughed with the others, but privately wondered if Peeves could be Professor Binns' future slayer.

He finally made it to the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower, not killed by bats just yet, and found Tom waiting for him. The last couple of days had been tense between them, ever since their fight in the Ravenpuff room, but they both stuck to each other despite this, dead set on keeping their weird friendship up no matter what.

They were soon let into the classroom by a cool as a cucumber Professor Merrythought, and went to sit at their usual seats in the middle of the room. The lecture didn't last long until they were split up in pairs and asked to practice the dancing feet jinx, _tarantallegra_, on each other. Tom was matched up with Lora's friend Rowan, and Harry with the only Slytherin girl their year – Dido Burke. She was little, dark skinned and kind of square looking. She seemed really shy as she didn't say anything when Harry greeted her, but always held her eyes downcast.

As they started practising, however, he found out she was everything _but_ shy. At least when it came to her spell work. She was a beast! She only needed three tries to get the spell to work, and soon, Harry was dancing for his life all over the practice space at the front of the room.

At the end of practice, he tried to tell her this, but she didn't acknowledge him at all, only turned on her heal and vanished out the door.

"Did you see that?" Harry exclaimed as Tom came to a stop next to him, handing him his book bag which had been laying by their abandoned desks. "Thanks," he murmured, accepting it.

"See what?" Tom said in disinterest and started walking towards the library, shooting _flipendo_ at the bats as they came zooming towards the two of them.

"Dido Burke! Did you see how awesome she was?"

"Awesome? What kind of a word is that?" Tom said with a sneer.

"Oh, it means... cool... er, no, formidable, I guess. Awe-inspiring!"

"I assure you," Tom said, sounding long-suffering, "there is nothing awe-inspiring what so ever about Burke. She's completely bland. Insipid, even."

"She's not bland!" Harry exclaimed frustratedly. "Didn't you see how fast she was learning that jinx? And she didn't hesitate but cursed me with it the moment she got it. If that's not a force to be reckoned with, I don't know what is."

Tom sighed deeply, sitting down at one of the wooden tables the library housed, pulling out his charms homework. "And it hasn't occurred to you that she might have seemed so... _awesome_ to you only because you wanted her to be, just so that you could use her as an argument?"

"What? No! Of course not! It's true, she beat me hands down!"

"And you weren't holding back?" Tom asked in a sweet tone, putting Harry's teeth on edge.

"I wasn't," he hissed at the smug looking boy on the other side of the table.

"No?" Tom said, meeting his eyes over the edge of his 'The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2'. "Prove it."

Harry sighed deeply and pulled out his own homework, trying to let it slip until he had better arguments. Then his eyes fell onto his own charms book. "Hey, this book was written by a woman you know. Miranda Goshawk, it says."

Tom just rolled his eyes at him and kept on reading. "Would you stop pushing your point, Harry, you're getting obnoxious."

"You're the obnoxious one," Harry muttered under his breath but stopped arguing, for the time being.

They worked for about an hour before Tom stretched lazily and started putting his things away. Harry didn't move an inch as he still had a lot more work to do on his end.

"You done?" he asked absently and flipped pages in his spell book to double-check his sources.

"I am," Tom said and cleared his throat, efficiently gaining Harry's flippant attention. "I'm going to collect what we will need for tonight. I hope you're not in need of another review but know what I am expecting of you?"

"Yeah, yeah," Harry said, waving his hand in a dismissing gesture. "Meet you after the feast, wait for the Baron to do his part, talk to the bloody thing, make 'em pee their pants. All set, you can go collect that cold-hearted creature. See you!"

"You better not mess this up," Tom hissed at him before stalking off, leaving Harry to finish his homework and wonder about why on earth he'd agreed to assist his friend in this psycho mission he'd cooked up.

* * *

They were crouching next to each other behind the statue of Herpo the Foul in one of the dungeon corridors, not far from the potions classroom. In the middle of the dark lit hallway lay the orange and black beast Tom had gone after a couple of hours before. How he'd gotten it to lay still and wait for them here the three hours the All Hallows' Evening feast had been going on when it was used to the freedom of living in the Forbidden Forest, Harry half feared, half hoped, he'd never learn.

The 7 foot long snake-creature seemed restless, being inside for the first time in its life, probably. One of its heads, the middle one, was lying down in comfort, looking like it was asleep, the other two was twisting about, taking everything around them in with suspicious yellow eyes. The head the furthest to the right was continuously hissing irritatedly, plotting to "Kill, maim, crush, poison, defend, bite." Harry's head was starting to hurt from listening to it.

"You had to get the biggest bloody snake you could find, didn't you? Why couldn't you just have conjured one?" Harry whined in a hushed voice.

"We want to frighten them, not humour them, you moron," Tom hissed back at him, making the creature perk up in attention at hearing its own tongue being spoken.

"Sounds like the Bloody Baron's doing at pretty good job at it on his own," Harry hissed back, and indeed, coming towards them was the terrified yelps of four young boys being chased by something. In this case, Harry knew, a fear-inspiring ghost.

"Protect us," Tom hissed at the giant snake-creature, that immediately arose in its full height and hissed threateningly in the direction the screams came from. And then, Tom's four dorm mates appeared from around the corner, and promptly froze in place as they caught sight of the giant monster blocking their way.

"RUNESPOOR!" Avery howled and made to run back the way they came for when Lestrange's arm came shooting out, capturing him before he could flee. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Avery yelled at him, but the other only shook his head slowly, pointing at the person who had suddenly appeared at the side of the giant snake, looking as calm as ever.

"Riddle," he rasped out.

Harry stepped out from behind the statue as well, just in time to see Selwyn move towards Tom, yelling at him to look out.

The Runespoor hissed threateningly and Selwyn jumped back in fright. Tom laughed coldly.

"Riddle, Potter, you idiots!" Malfoy hissed at them, pale as a ghost. "Get away from it; it's deadly poisonous!"

"Not to us," Tom leered, a wide grin on his face. "It won't hurt its masters." Then, he turned to the giant snake and told it to get closer to the other boys.

The group of Slytherins yelled in blind fear as the runespoor slithered closer, baring its six pointed teeth, and Harry felt his heart hammer its way up into his throat. It wasn't going to hurt them, was it?

"Stop!" he hissed at the snake, making it halt instantly, turning around to look at him. "Come back here. Lay down."

"What are you _doing_," Tom exclaimed in outrage, grabbing a hold of his upper arm. "You're ruining it!"

"No," Harry said, pointing at the quivering group of boys at the other end of the corridor. "I think they've gotten the hang of it."

And indeed, the four Slytherins weren't only shaking in fright, they were also looking at Tom and Harry with awe glistening in their eyes. Seeing this, Tom's face broke into a superior leer that made Harry's skin crawl in discomfort. Then, they all tensed up as they heard footfalls coming closer to their location.

Tom instantly turned his wand on the Runespoor, whispering "_reducio_", and made the now 1 foot long snake slither up his arm and hide in his robe pocket. And right in time, for the next they knew, Professor Slughorn came bustling out from around the corner, looking pale and very much out of breath.

"I heard screams," he panted, shifting his gaze between the six boys in the corridor. "What happened here?"

"The Bloody Baron, sir," Tom said in a weak voice. "He was chasing them – but we fought him off, together. All of us."

"Oho!" Slughorn exclaimed, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief he conjured out of thin air. "Good work, my boys, good work. Oh, yes, 30 points to Slytherin, I suppose would be in order."

"Er, I'm a Gryffindor, sir," Harry said giddily, oddly amused by the turn of events.

"Oh, yes, of course you are..." Slughorn said, smiling faintly and walked back around the corner without another word. Harry burst out in surprised laughter.

"D'you reckon he's drunk?" he asked Tom who smirked back at him.

"Well," he said, clicking his tongue in a disagreeing manner. "At least a bit tipsy, I would suspect. It is a day of celebration, after all..."

"You... You," Avery stuttered, looking like he was about to faint.

"You're Parselmouths!" Malfoy exclaimed in an accusing tone.

"The heirs of Slytherin, I would imagine," Lestrange said in a drawling voice, not looking the least bit surprised.

"We are," Tom gloated, looking like the cat who got the cream.

"Speak for yourself," Harry muttered and got a sharp elbow driven into his side as a result.

Malfoy and Tom stared at each other for a couple of moments, the blonde boy wearing an expression of utter mistrust, before he looked down and took a little step back, as if in surrender.

Tom smiled broadly.

* * *

It was a chilly day. Golden and red leaves were flying around in the sharp wind as the six second year boys made their way down towards the Quidditch pitch. They had all bundled up in as much clothing they could, not to get cold if the game dragged on for a long time, as happened at times when the seekers didn't find the snitch.

All of them wore their winter cloaks and house scarves. Except for Tom. Harry suspected, with a pinch in his heart, that his friend didn't have enough money to buy one. He wouldn't admit it though, but had brushed his concerns off with the excuse of not freezing easily.

It was time for the second Quidditch match of the year – Slytherin against Gryffindor – and Harry would watch it on the opponent stands. It felt weird. But it would have to do.

They climbed up the rickety steps and seated themselves at the top of the stands, as all the better seats at the front were taken. Harry ended up between Tom and Silas Selwyn, which suited him well, since amongst all of his new _friends_ he liked him the most. Tom, on the other hand, seemed to get along the best with Romulus Lestrange – no surprise there. Figures he would like the brooding, sharp-minded boy. They had lots in common. As for being total pains in the ass, for example.

Abraxas Malfoy and Alfred Avery liked to keep each other company – so the odd group of six usually consisted of smaller groups of two. Although, Tom still liked to keep tabs on Harry, so the smaller constellations weren't a given either, but in constant alteration.

Harry had learned his new friends had nicknames for each other. He'd already known Alfred was called Fred, since Serena had told him several weeks ago. But he learned Silas was called Silsel and Abraxas Aby. However, when he'd asked for Romulus' nickname the other boys had paled dramatically and Silas had whispered into his ear frantically.

"I tried calling his Lesley once..." The scrawny boy gave a horrified shiver. "Don't ever do that! Sometimes he'll let Romus slide... But usually, it's safest just to call him by his given name."

Yes, he definitely had a lot in common with Tom, Harry decided as he sneaked a peek at the dark haired boy seated at the far end of the row. He had a feeling Tom wouldn't react that well either if Harry started calling him Riddles or Tommy. He gave a mental shiver at the thought.

They were all cheering, except for Tom, as the players flew out onto the pitch and watched in silent anticipation as the quaffle soared high and was caught by a Slytherin chaser. Harry and Silas were jumping up and down, clutching at each other, laughing and yelling animatedly as the game played out.

The others seemed excited as well, and became more and more lively as Slytherin scored goal after goal. Again, except for Tom. As soon as he'd brushed off his seat and sat down, he'd crossed his legs and picked up a thick book from out of his bag. Reading. During a game! Harry couldn't believe it. But he took his mind off it as the game became rougher and rougher, the Gryffindors being frustrated with not getting any goals.

Slytherin was leading with 60 to 10 when the Gryffindor seeker, Camille Wilcox, did a sharp turn and started chasing after something that had caught her eye. Harry's heart was hammering in his chest, he was jumping up and down, he was surrounded by a sea of people crying out in outrage, but it didn't matter. Wilcox was after the snitch!

The Slytherin seeker followed her, but never caught up enough speed to reach her. She was so close! Harry thought he could almost spot the golden ball from his seat in the stands. Only a little closer!

And then, the snitch left the pitch's boundaries and the seekers had to give up their chase.

The entire Slytherin stands broke out in joyous cheers and Harry felt his heart beat calm down slightly. He felt overly hot in his many layers of clothes all of a sudden and sat down for a bit to catch his breath. Then, he noticed Tom was shivering as if cold where he sat, still in place, eyes locked onto the page he was on. Without really thinking about it, Harry coiled off his red and gold scarf and wrapped it around Tom's neck instead. The other snapped his head up instantly, piercing Harry with a death glare. But he didn't give the scarf back. He only glared discretely.

Harry knew why. They were surrounded by students – people Tom liked to fool. If he threw the gesture back in Harry's face the others would notice and the act would be ruined. So he held his peace.

For now.

Harry smiled sweetly at him, well aware of the line he'd just crossed, but not really finding it in him to care at the moment. He then retook his place at Silas' side, and cheered as Gryffindor finally made another goal. But the case looked grim for the lions, he had to admit. The snakes had a lead with 110 – 20 now, and were they to catch the snitch they wouldn't only win the game, they would take the lead in the entire tournament, the badgers at the top right now with their 220 points.

Harry groaned as Slytherin scored another goal, but then! Wilcox did another dive, and Harry saw it! He saw the snitch! She almost had it! He jumped up and down to see better, whimpering and clutching Silas' arm in a tight grip. And then -

She had it!

"YES! YES! SHE DID IT!" Harry screamed and cheered bravely – although he got a lot of nasty glares from the people around him, not appreciating his bright mood when they'd just lost the game.

"Oh NO!" Silas groaned next to him, and slapped him playfully on the shoulder. "Quit it, you! Can't you see we're mourning over here?"

"I can," Harry said, grinning like a mad-man, "I don't care!"

"Oh, that much is obvious," Silas said, a grin gracing his lips as well. "Oi, I see we have some wavering loyalty in our ranks – Tom, you traitor!" he exclaimed as he caught sight of the young boy, wearing Harry's Gryffindor scarf. Tom looked up from his book, snapped it shut and levelled a death glare on a quickly paling Silas who held up his hands in a gesture of defeat.

"Just kidding, just kidding!" he assured and turned around to divert the attention from himself by picking up a conversation with Fred. Harry raised his brows at Tom, smirking in a pleased way.

"Did you see the Gryffindor seeker? Quite extraordinary, don't you think? And a _girl_ as well, did you notice?"

Tom just arose and brushed his robes off in an indifferent manner. "If you're trying and convince me you will have to do _much_ better than a so-so Quidditch player, Harry."

"She isn't so-so," Harry said flatly, following his friend as he made his way down the rickety steps and onto ground level.

"If she wasn't she'd have caught the snitch at first try, not half an hour later," Tom judged in a cool tone.

"It's tactics, Tom, she wanted the chasers to score more goals before catching it!"

The other just scoffed mockingly at him, rolling his eyes. "If she'd paid any attention to the chasers she'd done better to catch the snitch more quickly and not letting our team score as many goals as they did."

"How would you know, you had your nose in a book the entire game," Harry muttered, although he couldn't really say Tom was _wrong_ per se.

"I do have ears, you mooncalf!" the other snapped and picked up a quicker pace so that Harry and the others, walking a few steps behind them, fell behind slightly.

Harry smiled wickedly at his back, not failing to notice Tom hadn't complained for even one second about the warm scarf still wrapped around his pale throat, but had actually stuck his cold hands into it as well to warm them up.

* * *

The weeks passed quickly now that Harry had gotten some sort of normality into them. All November passed with Tom and himself having lots of homework and hanging out with the other Slytherin boys, having a great time, to Harry's pleasant surprise. He still had a stiff friendship with Romulus, but with everyone else he got along quite well. Even with Abraxas, to his great surprise, no matter he was related to the nasty enemy of his past – Draco Malfoy.

Harry still tried to convince Tom girls had value as their own individuals, but had found himself unsuccessful so far. It seemed to be something the other had formed an opinion about early on in his life and wouldn't change his mind about in the first place. That did not mean Harry would give up, however.

December came and lots of the clubs started showing their faces, promoting their activities by having shows of different sorts. The music club had a Christmas concert in the Slytherdor room, visited by most students of Hogwarts. A few days later the drama club, Five Squibs and a Griffin, performed a play about Santa Claus and his house-elves in the very same room. It was quite amusing since all actors, except for the leader playing Santa, had drunk Polyjuice Potion containing hairs from the school's house-elves, making them appear like real elves.

The track team had a length skating contest on the frozen Black Lake, the sewing circle had decorated every statue inside the entire castle with knitted scarves and hats, and the duelling clubs had a fierce tournament in the airy Gryffinclaw room.

Also, the art club had another exhibition, this time on the balcony of the Slytherclaw room inside the library. Harry had painted a snow-covered forest with stags running in and out from behind the trees. Tom's paining was of a wilted Christmas tree, lights unlit in it and all of the baubles broken. Serena had made yet another self-portrait – this one a swirling cloud of snow, pained faces showing up and disappearing again in the mist.

Leda had made an outrageously realistic painting of Hogwarts, lights flickering in the windows, snow falling onto its pointed roof-tops. It looked _extremely_ Christmas-y, Harry had judged in awe, staring at it for a long, _long_ time.

Before any of them knew it, it was time for most students to return home for the Christmas holiday, Harry excited beyond measure to finally be able to celebrate properly, with his _real_ family.

Things were starting to turn out alright. At last.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for the reviews, views and subscriptions. I hope you liked the chapter, I felt it was a bit chopped up... Oh well! _

_Oh! And by the by! I now have exactly 100 subscribers. Cool huh? _

_Mischief managed! _


	9. Hardly Anything There for You to See

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Nine

_Hardly Anything There for You to See_

* * *

Heavy lids, framed by pitch black eyelashes fanning out, cracked open slowly, revealing a pair of unfocused bright green eyes. A sluggish, thin hand rummaged about the bedside table to pick up a pair of wire rimmed glasses and lazily placed them onto the nasal bridge of the young boy.

The almond-shaped eyes became focused as they swept around the room, taking everything in with pleasure. He'd arrived at his new home in Godric's Hollow the day before, and it was now Monday the 22nd December – 3 days until Christmas.

The room he'd gotten for his own, the previous storage room, was the same size as the one he'd had at Privet Drive 4, only much, _much_ comfier. He had a lush wooden rimmed bed with soft covers and pillows. His walls were newly done in an elegant dark red and black tapestry, and on it hung three framed photographs of his relatives – one of his grandparents, one of his cousins and their parents and one of his new family. He felt right at home, despite not finding himself amongst them. He'd have plenty of time taking other photographs with them, after all. Perhaps this Christmas, even, he hoped.

He slipped out of bed, put his naked feet into a pair of slippers and shrugged on a flowing, golden housecoat to make his way downstairs, following the wondrous smell of breakfast. On the ground level of the rich house you'd find the kitchen, the living room, the study and Nicole's sowing room. Upstairs were the three bedrooms, two bathrooms and another staircase which led to the big, dark attic.

In the kitchen he found Nicole, standing by the black iron stove, just about to grab hold of an oven tray filled to the rim with freshly baked scones. They smelled heavenly, Harry judged, his stomach agreeing loudly.

By the kitchen table sat a sullen looking Harold, reading a long letter while sipping at a steaming cup of tea. As he caught sight of Harry his face darkened further. He evidently was not done sulking over the invisibility cloak incident. It made Harry's hungry stomach clench in guilt.

"Oh, good morning, sweetie," Nicole exclaimed as she caught sight of him, and hurried to engulf him in a warm embrace, kissing the top of his head gently. Harry's stomach stopped clenching as huge butterflies of joy settled there, fluttering happily at the affectionate gesture. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," he smiled, feeling a strange loss as his new mother let go of him. "Really well."

"And the room, is it to your liking?"

"Oh, yes," Harry assured her, smiling widely. "I love it!"

"I'm glad," Nicole breathed out and pushed him gently towards the kitchen table, a hot cup of tea soaring through the air to settle on the table in front of him as he sat down, opposite Harold, who now ignored him.

Nicole looked around the kitchen, putting her hands onto her hips. "Now, I must get going – it's a quarter to nine already and I need to be at the ministry. Harold, you take Harry with you to do some shopping today, yes? Your allowance is in the case on the low table in the hall – share it fairly, alright? Dad and I will be back at four. Don't be late for dinner."

"Yeah, yeah," Harold muttered and got a kiss on the cheek before Nicole hurried towards the front door. "Be good!" she called out before leaving her sons behind to fend for themselves.

Harry looked up at Harold's stony face in insecurity, capturing his bottom lip between his teeth as he gathered his courage to speak. "So... Where are we going?"

"Just out," Harold said, eyes still locked onto the letter in his hand. "The Hollow's got some stores, not a lot of 'em, but enough. It's a town of both Muggles and wizards, so most of 'em aren't magical, but that's fine. Don't you agree?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry said weakly, casting an insecure glance towards the tray of scones standing on the counter. "Um, are... Are we gonna eat those?" he asked helplessly.

"What?" Harold said, looking up in confusion, before noticing where his brother was looking. "Oh, right. Yeah, of course we are," he said, standing up to dig out butter, cheese and jam out of the cupboards – one of them with a cooling charm inside, making it work just like a muggle refrigerator, only without electricity. Harry strongly suspected there was one frozen one too somewhere in the magical kitchen.

Harry flew to his feet, shuffling about, not really knowing what to do. He hurried forwards to the scones and promptly got a nasty burn from the oven tray, having forgotten it was scalding hot. At his pained hiss Harold whipped around and grasped his hand in a firm grip – grimacing as he saw the glowing red burn. "Wait here," he said and disappeared upstairs.

Harry sat back down onto his chair, feeling miserable he couldn't do anything right, but had to be such a nuisance to his already ticked off brother. When Harold came back downstairs, carrying a round jar of bright orange burn-healing paste, Harry looked down onto his knobbly knees so as not to see the angry expression he expected to find on the other's face.

His brother knelt in front of him and took his hand in a gentle grip, smearing the paste onto the burn carefully. It was a thin layer that slowly seeped into the skin of his hand. Once it was completely absorbed, the red burn mark was no more.

"Thanks," Harry whispered and swallowed deeply before looking up into the deep blue eyes of his grandfather-brother.

To his surprise he did not find anger there – only warmth. It made his heart clench, a strong desire to weep forming in his throat.

"Harry, I don't want you to be frightened of me," Harold said softly, sweeping a gnarly thumb back and forwards over the hand he still held captured in his. "I admit I _am_ still angry about the cloak... But I _know_ you didn't lose it on purpose. I _have_ forgiven you, although I still am mad about it being gone. Alright? Don't worry about it. There's nothing we can do – it's gone."

"Harold, I truly am sorry-" Harry said in a thick voice, but his brother hurried to interrupt him.

"I know, I understand. I said, don't worry about it."

"Yes, but..." Harry stuttered, licking his dry lips nervously. "But I kind of know, sort of, where it is. I _will_ get it back to you, I promise."

"But it's disappeared into the Forbidden Forest, Harry. There's no way to – wait..." Harold said, something slowly dawning on him before his face morphed into an expression of utter self-disgust and he slapped the palm of his left hand onto his forehead.

"Oh, I've been so _stupid_! Of _course_ there's a way to get it back!" Harold exclaimed, shining up like a sun. "I'll just _accio_ it! It's outside, somewhere, so there's nothing in the way. Godric's soggy underpants, why didn't I think of it before? I admit I'm not brightest chap when it comes to Charms, but bloody hell was I stupid!"

Harry went very stiff. "What does _accio_ do?" he asked wearily. Harold smiled widely at him.

"It's the Summoning Charm, it summons things. Well, it doesn't apparate things into your waiting hand, exactly, but it makes them soar towards you. You have to be reasonably close to the thing, otherwise it'd take too long and it could get lost on the way. We're far from Scotland after all... But when we get back to Hogwarts-"

"No, Harold, wait," Harry interrupted, a heavy stone landing itself in his stomach. This was not good! It had been a horrible excuse from the beginning – bloody Tom and his counting on Harry's survival instinct to come up with a good plan. Now look what had happened! Of course there would be a charm for summoning things. "I might have... lied a bit. It's a bit more complicated than I've made it seem. The cloak is not in the Forbidden Forest... It's inside Hogwarts. Someone took it."

Harold's face paled at first before a dark flush crept up on his slightly hollowed cheeks. "_What_?" he snarled, grabbing hold of Harry's both hands, clenching at them intently. "Who took it? Who did this – did they threaten you? Was that why you had to lie?"

Harry looked at his brother in horror. How had it come to this? "I- I can't tell you," he stuttered and the hands holding his smaller ones captive tightened their hold painfully.

"Harry, you _have to_ let me help you," Harold grunted as if holding in a growl of frustration.

But he was out of luck, he would learn nothing. Harry still had fresh in memory that one time of weakness when he'd let himself get convinced into telling Charlus about everything. His seventh year _head boy_ cousin had stood no chance against Tom, there was no way Harold would do any better. Harry would have to bite his tongue and hold on until he could help himself.

So he clenched his lips together tightly and shook his head in the negative, making his brother look both ticked off and disappointed.

"No," Harry said letting out a deep huff of air. "It's too complicated. But I _promise_ I will get it back. Just trust me."

Harold stared into his eyes intently for a long time, before nodding once and getting to his feet, fetching the now lukewarm scones from off the counter.

* * *

Christmas morning the entire Potter family got ready and lined up in front of the fireplace in the living room to floo to Little Hangleton to celebrate together with their relatives.

Harry hated every single second of the floo ride, and breathed out a heavy sigh of relief as it finally was oven and he tumbled out of a sudden opening and onto a thick Persian rug. The others followed him, but ended up with their feet still on the ground inside the mantel, enabling them to simply step out one by one, dignity intact. Harry marvelled on how in the world they managed it.

Then, he got other things to think about as Lora flung herself onto his back from behind, almost making him fall over again. After her came a little light brown poodle, jumping at his legs, wagging its tale playfully.

"Harry!" Lora squealed and hugged him tightly. Harry let out a surprised bark of laughter and swirled around a bit, making the girl on his back giggle happily and the dog bark in attention.

"I'm so glad you're here! It was right out _boring_ without you. Charlus has been a total humdrum, just reading those bloody books-"

She squealed in surprise as her brother picked her up and threw her away to land in the plush sofa, the little girl emitting a surprised grunt as she temporarily lost her breath in the touch down. "Hey!" she yelped once she'd regained her wits, and had the entire Potter clan laughing at her. The poodle jumped up onto her lap and started licking her face excitedly. Lora groaned in disagreement and the family laughed as one once again.

"Well, you don't have to clench him to death, you koala!" Charlus lectured before ruffling the top of Harry's head affectionately. "Hi there, kiddo, you well?"

"Yeah," Harry said, grinning up at his handsome cousin. "How about you?"

"Well, you know, a bit worn out. The NEWT preparations are slowly killing me... But it'll be fine. I'll try and take it easy and not wear myself out too much – it's Christmas after all. Hey, merry Christmas, by the way."

"Yeah, merry Christmas," Harry agreed before being interrupted by Harold who swooped in and hit Charlus on the shoulder, exclaiming a loud "Merry Christmas, you prat!".

Harry left them alone to their bickering and walked over to the group of grown ups and let out a timid "Hullo" when he came face to face with his aunt and uncle. Uncle Leonard smiled widely and grasped hold of his left shoulder, giving an affectionate "Merry Christmas, Harry" that made his stomach soar in happiness.

Aunt Katherine let the corners of her lips curl in a Snape-like smirk-smile and nodded once to him, greeting him silently. "How are you, child?" she questioned in a low voice.

"I'm well, thank you," he said, smiling up at her stony but handsome face.

"Such good manners," she said in a pleased voice. "I wish our Lora could learn from your example."

"Oh no, you," Uncle Leonard exclaimed, chuckling lightly and pinched his wife in the side. "You got Charlus acting all polite and charming. You can't have Lora as well! She's my little girl!"

"Your _rude_ little girl, you mean?" Aunt Katherine said in a teasing tone, some warmth creeping up onto her face as she gazed at her younger husband.

"Well, I wouldn't say she's rude, per se... She's simply lovely. Yes, lovely is a good word for it," he said, nodding to himself while his wife rolled her eyes at him.

Then, Nicole engaged the two of them in a tale about a case she'd been working on for the last few days and Harry looked around the room to find Lora. She was still sitting in the sofa with the little poodle in her lap, now surrounded by Arabella and James who were sipping Port wine from out of elegant crystal tumblers. He took a seat next to James and Lora shone up like a sun when catching sight of him.

"Merry Christmas, son," Grandpa James said, making toasting gesture towards his grandson with the wine glass before taking another sip from out of it.

"Merry Christmas," Harry agreed, smiled warmly, and shifted his gaze onto his grandmother. He met pale blue, almost white eyes scrutinizing him closely. It felt like the old woman could see right into his soul.

"You have been unhappy," she concluded in a silent voice and Harry's cheeks heated up in shame and bewilderment. How did she know? "But you feel better now," she continued, not affected by his discomfort. "You have gotten yourself through the storm. Good, very good. You are strong. Never lose that quality."

Harry could only nod at her, no idea whatsoever what to say to that. Thank you? I know? You think so?

"Harry, don't you want to try the Port too?" Lora whined, breaking the spell Grandma Arabella had on him, and he grinned at his little cousin.

"Yeah, sure," he said and she let out a happy squeal, rounding on her grandfather who looked utterly unimpressed.

"You see? It isn't just me! Please, just a sip? Pretty please?" she pleaded, eyes wide, looking utterly adorable with the little dog in her lap to boot.

"Not a chance!" Grandpa James deadpanned and took another sip, ignoring the disappointed groan Lora let out as result.

"Are we at least gonna open them presents soon, then?" she said in a sulky voice, under lip pushed out in a cute pout. Harry almost burst out in laughter at the whiny act she put on in the comforts of her home. How different from the confident little girl he knew from school!

"Did I hear 'open presents'?" came the excited voice of Harold from behind then, and Lora whipped around in her seat to beam up at him, her previous sulkiness thrown to the wind.

"Yes!" she said. "Don't you agree we should do it now rather than later, so we can enjoy them all day long?"

"Absolutely!" he exclaimed, grabbing hold of his grandfather's shoulders from behind. "What say you, oh mighty chieftain? May we be allowed?"

"Well go ahead then, you little runts! Might as well do it to silence the lot of you."

Harold grabbed hold of Lora, from under her armpits, and she went soaring high in the air while singing an oddly tuned Christmas carol in a shrill voice. "You go on ahead, son," Grandpa James said to Harry, winking at him before pushing him gently out of the sofa and towards the big Christmas tree where there were big piles of gifts laying readily, waiting to be opened.

Harry stepped closer insecurely, not certain he was really allowed. Then, Charlus came up from behind him and put a gentle hand on his back, guiding him forwards. "I think I saw your pile over here... Aha! There it is, right next to mine."

They sat down on the floor and the little brown poodle came tripping and sat itself in Charlus' empty lap, yawning and curling together into a fuzzy ball of fur. "What's its name?" Harry asked gently, stretching a hand forwards to pat the dog softly on the back.

"Rabbitty," Charlus deadpanned and Harry let out a surprised burst of laughter.

"What?" he said, thinking in terms of the other pulling his leg.

"It's Lora's fault," the older boy exclaimed in a tired voice, although he was smiling softly at the same time. "We got him when she was seven, and she was completely obsessed with Beedle the Bard – especially the tale of _Babbitty Rabbitty and her Crackling Stump_. So she named the dog Rabbitty before anyone else could have another say in the matter. She just wouldn't change her mind, and well, that has been the poor creature's name ever since."

"Oh," Harry said, smiling at the little dog with the unfortunate, but cute, name. "I've never heard that one... Or anything of Beedle the Bard, actually."

"You haven't?" Charlus exclaimed in outrage. "That just will not do! I'll lend you ours! You just _have to_ read it – it's such a big part of our culture after all – _everyone_ has read it!"

"Alright," Harry said with a happy smile feeling like it was permanently imprinted onto his lips. He'd never felt this loved before. He felt overwhelmed by the fact that every single person around him adored and cared for him.

Soon, the entire Potter family had gathered around the Christmas tree and started opening up the presents. From Lora and her family Harry had gotten a set of his very own paint brushes, with golden handles and very soft hairs on the top of them. His grandparents had gotten him a broomstick, as they'd apparently caught up on the fact he'd tried out for the team at the beginning of the year. His own family had given him lots of clothes in rich materials, sown by Nicole he learned. Especially stood out a lush, billowing cloak in a deep crimson colour. It was gorgeous – the nicest piece of clothing Harry had ever owned.

Finally, there was only a little envelope left for him, and he frowned deeply as he opened it up and snatched out a little card from St. Mungo's – whatever that was. But it didn't sound good. Like some sort of institution for insane people. Reading the card he soon understood it was a magical hospital and that he had an appointment there. To fix his eye sight.

"It's only if you want to," Walter assured him. "We weren't certain you wanted to do something about your vision – but as you might have noticed there aren't that many wizards and witches wearing glasses no longer. Most wizarding children get their sight corrected in their younger years. They can't do much about age-related vision problems, but inheritable ones like yours – well you must have gotten it from Harold, and in his turn Nicole. They both had poor eye sight in their early years. And here I go, babbling – do you want it, Harry? You can always say no, of course!"

"I'd love to," Harry said, close to tears. He'd felt horribly compromised being blind as a bat without his glasses, they being something he had to depend on. Now, he wouldn't have to rely on them ever again. He would be free of them. It was something he'd only ever dreamed of before. And now he would get it, just like that. He couldn't hold back the joyous tears any longer.

* * *

The ride from platform 9 ¾ had been long and tedious. Harry had had no problem with the company, consisting of his brother and cousins, but he'd made this 6 hour long travel just two weeks ago. It got boring after a while, there was no mistaking it. Although he was a bit sad he wouldn't be allowed to go back home until about 5 months' time, he was at least happy he wouldn't have to be cooped up in a slim compartment again until then.

Once Harry, with a sigh of relief, stepped inside of Hogwarts castle he was immediately greeted with the sight of Tom, sitting at the bottom of the stairs, quite evidently waiting for him. It made his stomach flutter in pleasure, and he realized he'd actually missed his psycho sadist of a friend during the weeks they'd been apart.

Tom's dark green eyes seemed to pierce him in place while the boy closed the distance between them and came to stand nose to nose with him, a slim, long-fingered hand coming up to clutch hesitantly at the sleeve of Harry's new, red robe.

He didn't understand at first what the other wanted, but only stared at him in confusion as he refused to meet his gaze. Then, the odd thought of Tom wanting to hug him flew completely unbidden into his mind. Was that what the other wanted?

Harry carefully stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Tom's stiff body, testing the waters. The Slytherin boy did not refuse him, but he did not return the embrace either. He just stared resolutely into the stony wall next to them, furiously intent on imitating the stiff material to perfection.

Although, when Harry let go of him he noticed Tom did not let go of his grip on the sleeve, but was clenching and slackening his hold, as if he wanted to prolong the hug but wouldn't let himself beg for it.

"Did you miss me?" Harry asked with a cheeky smile, getting a mean scoff from out of the other.

"In your dreams," Tom said with a sneer, carefully hiding his face towards the wall so that no passers by would see his change in character.

"Alright," Harry said and started walking towards the great hall to have dinner, making Tom finally let go of his hold on his robe. "Did you like the Christmas present I sent you?"

Tom let out an amused little snicker and finally curled his lips into a genuine smile. "At least I was humoured by the irony of it," he said in a pleasant tone, Harry scoffing in amusement as well.

It had been after careful consideration on his shopping spree with Harold he'd decided to buy his Slytherin friend a gift as well. It wasn't because he'd planned to do it or because he even for one second thought that Tom deserved it – but he'd kind of stumbled over the perfect gift in one of the muggle stores of the Hollow.

He'd bought the bastard a new diary.

* * *

The classes started up the very next day and Harry was once again caught up in the normality that was his twisted new reality. The group of boys he usually hung out with after classes had taken to join him and Tom in the Slytherdor room in the evenings, and they all had a great time together.

Silas had started teaching Harry how to knit, and it was much harder than it seemed. He'd believed the magic would simplify the process measurably. He'd been wrong!

Apparently, you had to already know how to work the knitting needles before you could magic them into doing your work for you. The needles and the yarn could only work their magic as far as your mind could go. You had to keep concentrating on _how_ to knit whatever it was you were creating the entire time the needles did their work. Which was, Harry found, much more difficult than knitting the Muggle way – although it was _a lot_ faster.

Once he'd finished his first work of art, an ugly, askew kettle-holder in a snow white yarn, he only gave it a glance and promptly threw it into the open fire, making Alfred, Silas and Abraxas laugh right out at his failure.

The second thing he made was more of a success. It was a long, uneven scarf in a black fluffy yarn that made it cosy despite its slim design. Harry wrapped it together once it was finished and threw it at a non-suspecting Tom, who gave a jolt and pierced him with a suspicious death glare once he'd seen what had been rudely tossed at his person.

"You'll need it," Harry deadpanned and picked out _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ out of his book bag to do some reading, smirking crookedly when he saw in the corner of his eye how Tom discretely put the scarf to his face, nuzzling it for a few seconds before stuffing it into his own book bag.

He might be a freaking nutcase, but once you showed the least bit of affection for him he soaked it up like a sponge, however hard he tried to hide it.

Harry had read nearly all the tales in the book Charlus had lent him, and had found he liked _The Warlock's Hairy Heart_ best. It was of a wizard digging himself deep into the dark arts so as not to fall in love.

He found that, just as in the story of _Don Quixote_, the main character had a lot in common with Tom. When Don's similarities to his friend were in the nature of insanity and weirdness, Tom's likeness to the Warlock was more of being a cold-hearted and ambitious person, his true self hidden underneath the polite exterior.

It would not surprise Harry in the least if he were to find out Tom had already delved into the dark arts, at least to some extent. As a matter of fact, he remembered being held against a wall, put under a clearly not light in nature cramping curse, a couple of months back. He would have to make sure his friend didn't dig too deep lest he make the same mistake the Warlock did in the story.

These thoughts in mind he lent Tom the book to read, explaining it was a couple of stories he'd best read if he wanted to fit into the magical society. His friend swallowed the bait and read it through in only two days. When Harry got it back he came to the conclusion that Tom hadn't cared for the Warlock's story at all but had found _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ much more intriguing. Figures, Harry mused, of course that control freak would like a story about becoming the master of death. Bloody fantastic.

* * *

A few days later Tom cornered him after their last lesson of the day and ordered him to come with upstairs to the seventh floor, to use the Invisibility Cloak to sneak into headmaster Dippet's office. What Tom wanted to do in there he never learned, for once they'd climbed all the stairs and his friend discretely pulled out the cloak from out of his book bag, Harry pounced. He snatched the cloak from out of the other's grip and pressed the very stiff body against the railing, a firm and threatening grip around his throat to keep him in place.

Tom struggled like a madman, sending fearful glances down the seven levels of stairwell, chest heaving in fearful pants. In fact, Harry had never seen the other this unhinged and bothered before. Not even that one time when Tom thought Harry would cease to exist after having thrown the diary into a furious bonfire. It was oddly fascinating.

"What's the matter, Tom, scared of heights?" he hissed in a low voice.

"Let me go, let me go, let me go," Tom chanted furiously but Harry only smiled coldly. He had his tormentor in a firm grasp, completely at his mercy, and he enjoyed the infrequency of not being the victim for once.

"What, you want me to let you go? But it's such a high fall, Tom, you would get hurt," he whispered sweetly into his captive's ear, noticing with wonder big beads of sweat had started streaming from out of the other's forehead.

He realized Tom was actually frightened to death. Scared out of his mind. Was he that frightened of heights? Was that why he was so opposed to Harry playing Quidditch?

He finally took pity on the boy in his grip and was just about to help him up when there was a loudly yelled "HARRY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" from behind them.

He quickly pulled Tom to his feet and straightened up himself, finding Charlus in the company of a green-haired Leda, standing by the corridor entrance looking at them in disbelief. Harry swallowed thickly and looked down to the floor. He was just about to confess when a slightly breathless voice stole the words from out of his mouth.

"I tripped," Tom said, still shaking in the aftershocks of what had happened. "I almost fell, but Harry caught me in time."

"Sweet Merlin, Riddle, are you alright?" Charlus asked, hurrying forwards and checking the second year boy for blemishes. "Thank Godric you saved him in time, Harry."

The supposed saviour blushed in shame and looked away from his fussing cousin, eyes landing on Leda's thoughtful complexion. The seventh year Slytherin was staring at his face with hawk-like eyes, index finger tapping his chin thoughtfully, before he turned to his friend still checking his younger house-mate over.

"I believe you will be late for your Transfiguration class, _Athena_," Leda said with a leer, and Charlus head snapped up, adapting a look of slight panic.

"Oh no!" he exclaimed and hurried down the stairs, calling "Catch you later!" up to the others.

Leda grinned wickedly at the paling two boys in front of him, Harry felt like the Metamorphmagus could see right into his very soul. "I see you have finally learned how to paint with your heart, _Apate_- no," Leda interrupted himself, smirking widely, staring straight into dark green eyes. "_Postverta_," he purred. And with that, the green-haired teen left the same way he came. Leaving them to themselves once again.

Harry didn't dare meet Tom's gaze, ashamed of what he'd done in order to get the Invisibility Cloak back.

"I would have given it to you, you know," Tom decided to break the silence with, and Harry snorted in disbelief.

"Yeah? I'm sure you would," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He then started descending the stairs to search out Harold to give the cloak back. Tom followed, hot on his heels.

"We could still use it, you don't have to give it back. At least not just yet. Didn't you tell me you had it in your time? That means _you_ are its rightful owner, not that _Harold_. You're the youngest male heir."

"No," Harry said, shaking his head sharply. "You're wrong. Harold is the rightful owner – the cloak passes from father to son when the father decides it's time. Harold will probably have his own sons in the future... The cloak will never be mine."

"So keep it," Tom exclaimed, a hungry shine to his eyes. "Don't tell him you got it back, just take it for your own."

Harry stopped dead in front of the fat lady, piercing his power thirsty friend with a cold glare. "No, it wouldn't be right," he said, murmured the password to the painting and slipped inside to search his brother out.

* * *

Over the next few days, Tom's behaviour became highly obnoxious. In fact, he was so obviously ticked off their Slytherin friends took notice and immediately questioned Harry about what he'd done to inspire such fury.

Yes, Tom was _angry_. Furious Harry first had seen him in a weakened state and then refused his order to keep the invisibility cloak. Tom took it as a blatant show of disrespect and was ticked off that his friend had actually _ignored_ his wishes.

Therefore, he'd once again started to do things he knew would irritate Harry, as a manner of getting even, probably. That was why he had started murmuring rude comments about the violent things he'd like to do to the girls around them. But so that only Harry could hear it, naturally.

It was oddly reminiscent of the Runespoor's third head which had hissed a constant flow of insults and violent words. And Harry's patience was running thin.

Finally, he couldn't take it any more and furiously stormed off to wander the castle aimlessly, trying to calm down. Tom called after him to stop, but he didn't care. Not in the least.

He didn't get far until he found himself in the fifth floor corridor, next to the statue of Boris the Bewildered – the exact same place where he'd flown through time and space to be spat out of a little black diary, a couple of months ago.

Although, he wasn't alone. The bench where he and Tom had sat was occupied by someone – Dido Burke. Harry took a deep breath and sat down next to her, the square girl not moving a muscle to acknowledge his presence. They sat in silence for a while until Harry finally bristled and let out a frustrated growl. Dido looked at him, a mystified frown on her big forehead.

"Tom's got this belief guys are better than girls. I can't bloody stand it," he grunted out, glaring at the painting of the Viking ship on the other side of the wall.

"I see," Dido said, nodding slowly in understanding. "He needs to learn," she said in an emotionless voice. Harry looked at her intently, nodding slowly in agreement. "Where is he?" she asked, seeing this.

"Follow me," Harry said and led her back to the Slytherdor room, where Tom and the rest of the Slytherins were still seated in front of one of the crackling fireplaces. Dido immediately levelled her wand onto an unimpressed Tom and spoke in a cold tone of voice.

"I challenge you to a wizard's duel, Riddle."

Tom didn't look at her, but kept his eyes locked onto Harry's face, a sadistic smirk placed on his lips. "It would be my pleasure," he answered and stood up to follow Dido up onto the stage in the back of the room.

Harry and the others watched in silent anticipation as the two duellers turned their wands on each other, standing in position, waiting for someone to count them down. At Silas' excited command, they began firing of curse after curse, blocking, dodging, easily matching each other.

As far as Harry could tell, neither of them was better than the other. They were evenly matched. Who would win this duel was left completely to chance.

After a couple of minutes of simple sparring, Tom started frowning in frustration, quite obviously wanting this to be over sooner than later, so that he could gloat about it to his friends. That little spark of irritation was enough for him to snap and he thoughtlessly barked out "_coaudio_", the cramping curse soaring through the air towards Dido who easily dodged it.

When she raised her head again there was a satisfied smirk placed on her lips, as if Tom had just handed her his heart on a platter. "I was hoping you would do that," she crackled and fired off a dark curse of her own towards the quickly paling boy.

The duel became fierce and dangerous as they both fired off dark curse after dark curse towards each other. Tom held his own, but it was quite apparent Dido had the advantage of belonging to a pure-blooded family with access to lots of dark books and people with knowledge about the dark arts, her repertoire was that superior. The boy was soon covered in painful looking boils and was limping since he'd been hit by an electric shock curse in his leg. Dido didn't have one single scratch on her body.

The duel ended soon after that as Tom didn't dodge quickly enough and Dido snatched his wand away with a simple "_expelliarmus_".

Harry applauded and cheered with the others while Dido took a deep bow before throwing the wand back to its owner. She then smirked in self-satisfaction and waltzed out the room, head held high.

Tom stood still in the corner of the stage, livid with pain, shame and right out fury. Harry took a deep breath, bracing himself, and stepped forwards towards him.

"Don't touch me!" Tom yelled as he saw how he was coming closer. Harry didn't stop, but walked all the way, unfazed by the death glare he was getting.

"I'm taking you to the hospital wing," he explained calmly before grabbing hold of the other's left arm and placing it around his shoulders, making his friend lean on him. To Harry's surprise, Tom let himself be led out of the room without complaint. He probably understood he stood no chance against any of them in his weakened state, Harry decided.

"What was this all about?" Abraxas asked carefully, he and the other Slytherins following them on their trip to the hospital tower.

"I wanted to prove to Tom he was wrong," Harry said easily, the limping boy stiffening next to him. "Wizards aren't superior to witches."

The group of boys behind them went very quiet before Alfred's tentative voice asked "What did you say?".

"I said wizards aren't superior to witches," Harry repeated, only to frown in bewilderment as the group of boys burst out in wild laughter. He'd never seen them laugh this much, and that was a feat in itself. Tom started hissing in fury, obviously believing he was being made fun of.

Romulus was the one sobering up first and slapped his hand onto Tom's right shoulder, something as rare as a grin gracing his features. "Oh dear me, you've got it backwards, mate," he said, voice still thick with merriment. "Or, not backwards exactly – what am I saying? Wizards, right, they've been inferior to witches for _ages_. Well, not _now_, of course! What with the whole Wizards' Rights Movement about 100 years ago... What I'm saying is, this is a witches' world. And it has been for a long time."

* * *

_A/N: Thank you, as always! You guys are great! I've become completely obsessed with checking my e-mail to see if someone has posted a comment or something along those lines. I can't decide if such an obsession is a good or a bad one... Only 4 chapters left now! _

_Mischief managed! _


	10. Hardly Anything Else I Need to Be

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Ten

_Hardly Anything Else I Need to Be_

* * *

Harry and Tom stared in silence at their solemn looking friend, the other three still laughing merrily in to background, and both came to the conclusion they were not being made fun of.

They reacted very differently.

Harry's jaw promptly dropped to the ground, his body frozen in bewilderment. Tom, on the other hand, let out a loud snarl and ripped himself out of his friend's slack hold to limp on his own to the hospital wing, keeping up a furious pace. The others watched him go in silence, the four pure-bloods then and again letting out little sniggers under their breaths.

"I never knew," Harry rasped out, eyes flickering between the four others, his vision slightly blurry despite his vision being fixed to perfection just recently.

"The two of you are so clueless!" Abraxas exclaimed, shaking his pale blonde head with a wide smirk on his lips. "I can understand Tom's situation, his wizard father dead, growing up with only his Mud-blood mother to teach him things. What's your excuse?"

"I've only known there to be a magical world for a year and a half..." Harry whispered out, barely audible. "Could you tell me about it?" he asked, before anyone could interrupt him, looking at Romulus hopefully. The tall, hollow eyed boy nodded slowly and led the way back to the comfy Slytherdor room, the boys retaking their seats in front of one of the crackling fireplaces.

"Wizards and witches have had their given places in the magical society ever since they set foot in Britain," Romulus began in a lecturing voice, Harry paying close attention.

"And probably before that too," Silas injected thoughtfully.

"That varies depending on what tribe they came from," the other said in a dismissive tone, and cleared his throat. "The wizard was the head of the family, the one who would carry on the family name, who would bring up and educate the children. His home was his kingdom, which he would rule and defend. The witch was the family's face outwards, the one who would leave the home in the morning to gather in the Witches' Council, perhaps you've heard of _that_?"

"No," Harry said hesitatingly, frowning to himself, "but I've heard of the Wizards' Council..."

"A much later figment," Romulus said in a drawling tone. "First there was only the Witches' Council, and it worked similarly to the current Ministry of Magic, mind you, only a lot less organized."

"But not _all_ witches was in the WC," Alfred argued and got a nasty glare from the story teller himself.

"Of course not," he snarled. "What applies to most doesn't count for everyone. Well, point is, the witches had _jobs_. They were visible, unlike the wizards-"

"Not all the wizards were at home, though," Silas interrupted and got pushed out of the sofa by Romulus, sitting next to him.

"Are you or I going to tell the story?" he snarled and the others snickered at Silas' misfortune.

"No, you go ahead," the mousy little boy murmured and retook his place in the sofa, sitting as far as he could from the other.

Romulus smiled in self-satisfaction and turned back to Harry, listening carefully. "The witches were visible, and most Muggles knew of them and of what they could do. Then, the Christianity came to Britain, and everything changed.

"The king, Vortigern, saw to it that magic was forbidden. All witches found should be burned to death – yes, witches. See, the Muggles didn't know there were also wizards hiding amongst them, for they were such a discrete part of the magical society. They burned a few wizards, of course, as Fred so kindly pointed out, you can't make sweeping statements... But overall, the Muggle society, and in particular after the church's influence, was highly patriarchal. Therefore, they believed the best in men, and the worst in women. Little did they know their fires were useless against the flame-freezing charm, _real_ witches escaping without a scratch...

"But thanks to the Muggles, the sorcerers now had to hide themselves – that was when they started camouflaging things, such as the Diagon Alley. Everyone had to be mindful of what they did and said in public, especially the defenceless children, and most families isolated themselves in hidden towns, such as Hogsmeade. Or, hid their entire houses from the muggles. The Leaky Cauldron, for example, can only be seen by magical beings, did you know?"

Harry nodded eagerly and Romulus smiled in satisfaction, noticing with a sweeping motion of his eyes that all his friends were listening closely to his story. "Well, the magical society split from the Muggle one, and everyone had to be properly educated in how to hide and defend themselves. That was when Hogwarts started accepting wizards as well-"

"_What_?" Harry exclaimed in outrage, the others snickering at his disbelief.

"Yes," Romulus said, smirking at him. "Haven't you ever wondered why it is 'Hogwarts school of _Witchcraft _and Wizardry' and not 'of _Wizardry_ and Witchcraft'? From the beginning, it was simply called 'Hogwarts school of Witchcraft'. _Hagwarts _in popular speech, as they only accepted witches."

"You're kidding," Harry breathed out and got a grin in return.

"I kid not," Romulus said simply.

"But what about Godric Gryffindor? And Slytherin? Weren't they the founders of Hogwarts as well?"

"Oh, they were," Romulus said with a leer, "at the remake of the school. Before that it was in a much smaller scale and not a boarding school at all. It was similar to a Muggle university, you could say, where you can come and go as you please, but still have set lessons to get to. It was also where the Witches' Council had their meetings – in what later became the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower.

"Although, at the remake of the school, Salazar Slytherin was chosen for his own merits. He had a very particular status because he was a parselmouth and was as good as any witch, if not better, in the eyes of most people. Gryffindor on the other hand..." Romulus let out a little snicker, "was solely chosen to represent the _male_ part of magic – defence. He was a right out warrior, who would inspire the wizards to do what they had always done – defend their families.

"And then, the Ministry of Magic was created and it consisted of, almost exclusively, witches. At least all the top jobs were reserved for them. At Hogwarts the students might be so or so on equal level, but in the _real_ world, that was not the case.

"But as time passed and female students began to be sorted into Slytherin and Gryffindor, male students into Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, the structure started to crumble. And taking into account a constant stream of mud-bloods, used to the muggle ways – well, lets just say there eventually was a riot. It took a while for the wizards to build up a strong party, but at last they got influential enough to start a wizards' rights movement, demanding to be treated fairly.

"Young Licorus Black in the foreground, the witches finally agreed to change things, and Black became the first ever male minister for magic in 1831, his grandson, Phineas Nigellus Black, became the first wizard headmaster at Hogwarts by the way. Anyway, short thereafter the Wizards' Council was created as a subgroup to the Witches' Council, and things started evening out. It didn't take long for them to mix the two councils together though, creating the Wizengamot.

"Wizards still like being at home with the kids, of course, although there are daycares available since a few decades back. Silsel and I went to one of those together before Hogwarts, but Aby and Fred were kept at home with their fathers."

"So," Harry began hesitatingly, "there are still people who think witches should be superior to wizards, then?"

"Sure," Romulus said with a grin. "Take Burke for example. I'm surprised you even got her to listen to you long enough for her to understand she would get to put a _rogue warlock_ in his place. She never pays any attention to boys. She belongs to one of the most hardcore conservative Pure-blooded families there is. They only accept the old ways, although they allow their male family members to work once all the kids are off to Hogwarts. And they can only blend their blood with other Pure-bloods, anything else would be unthinkable! Preposterous! Even Aby's family has a history of marrying Half-bloods from time to time, and they are bloody well conservative as well."

"You ridiculing my family, Lestrange?" Abraxas growled threateningly and got a nasty leer in return.

"No, merely stating facts."

"Wait, there's something I don't understand," Harry interrupted before the two boys could start yet another bicker match. "Pregnant women! Aren't they all frail and, well, _not fit_ for being up on their feet most of the time? And also, _huge_? Wouldn't that get in the way of them being the ones taking care of the earning money part?"

"Have you ever seen a pregnant witch, Harry?" Alfred snorted, making him shake his head in the negative.

"They go to the hospital and the healers take care of 'em," Silas explained with a wide grin on his face.

"Take care of them, how?" Harry asked.

"Well, they... Eh, well..." Silas began, but couldn't find any words. So Abraxas took over with a roll of his eyes.

"They extend their tummy, like a magical tent – have you seen one? The exterior is little but the inside is _huge_. They drink a potion that takes care of the sicknesses and pain, and then everything is well."

"But what about afterwards," Harry argued, "aren't they supposed to breast feed the babies and such? And what about when they are about to give birth? How do they do it?"

The four Slytherins blushed furiously, refusing to look at each other, quite obviously embarrassed by Harry's outspokenness.

"What are you _saying_?" Abraxas whispered heatedly.

"I don't know how they do it," Romulus said, eyes downcast.

"Bellybutton?" Silas said in a hesitant voice.

"Women don't give birth out of their freaking bellybuttons, you idiots," came an angry snarl from behind them and they whipped around as one, finding a completely healed Tom standing there, arms crossed over his chest in a defensive position.

"How long have you been standing there?" Harry asked in confusion.

"I walked in on Silas falling onto the floor; made me feel all happy inside," Tom drawled in a cold tone of voice, making Silas let out an offended "Hey!" in disagreement.

"Oh, so you've heard it then?" Harry asked, making room next to him in the sofa so that his friend could sit down as well.

"I've heard enough," Tom said and disappeared into the Slytherin passage without another word.

* * *

The following days Tom was on edge, casting suspicious glances at the people surrounding him, possibly trying to find out just by looking at them if they found him inferior or not. He also pierced Harry with suspicious looks, as if he couldn't believe he kept sticking around even though there was no-one holding anything over his head any more. The diary was gone and the Invisibility Cloak was retrieved. Tom didn't seem to be able to wrap his head around the fact Harry actually stayed his friend despite this. It made him seem oddly cute in Harry's eyes.

The months passed quickly, filled up with lots of studies and gradually trickier classes, lots of laughs and arguments between the six oddly mixed friends and an increasing amount of Slytherin third and first years coming up to Tom and Harry to tie bonds of friendship.

Harry was mystified at first, not knowing what he'd done to inspire such a rush of people taking a liking to him. Then, he understood word had got out about their abilities in Parseltongue.

It irked him that people only wanted to be his friend because he could talk to snakes, and so he hunted Tom's four dorm mates down, one by one, to dig out who had snitched. To no surprise it had been Abraxas, the attention-whore.

"What are you so upset about?" he exclaimed in defence once Harry had gotten hold of him. "Aren't you happy people appreciate you now? That they look up to you and want to be in your presence?"

"Yeah, sure! I love it when people look at me with awe in their eyes because of something I can't help, or can do out of pure chance," he spat out, voice dripping of sarcasm. "And what happens next, Aby? What will we do when the entirety of Hogwarts knows? Huh, when the teachers know?"

"They won't," Abraxas said coldly, frowning down at his shorter friend. "Word won't stray outside of Slytherin house."

"And how can you be so sure of that?" Harry growled out, pushing the other backwards with a rough shove of his hands to the blonde's chest. Abraxas was just about to push him right back when Tom stepped between them, smirking nastily.

"Harry, stop this. Abraxas is right, this is a good thing," he said in a soft tone of voice.

Harry didn't want to believe it, but as it turned out, this had been something Tom had not only expected to happen, but actually planned for. He felt fooled, tricked into going along with something he in reality did not want. He had liked the state of anonymity he'd gained once the fascination over his Time Travelling had settled down. He didn't like being the centre of attention, especially not if what made him interesting was something he couldn't help. Like having an accident with a diary, having a scar on his forehead – or, as he'd learned just recently, having gotten an ancient gift out of pure chance. That was why he'd liked being on the Quidditch team so much, because it was a merit he had earned on his own, and the fame he got out of it was alright because he himself thought he deserved it. Now, he felt like a snake imprisoned at a zoo, and he dearly wished someone would do what he'd once done for a lonely anaconda trapped behind a glass window.

Tom on the other hand quite obviously enjoyed the attention. He basked in the light of being admired, of being special, of having people fawning over him while he didn't have to do anything in return. All behind his layers of masks, of course. Everyone around him thought he was their friend – how wrong they were. He only wanted to use them, Harry saw it clear as day.

Most persistent in gaining their acceptance and friendship was a group of three – first year Alphard and third years Lucretia and Walburga Black. The two girls looked so alike Harry felt inclined to swear on his magic they were twins. He then learned they were actually second cousins, and didn't feel as inspired to ever swear on anything again. Walburga and Alphard, on the other hand, was siblings, and it showed. They both had the same cold grey eyes, thin smiles and ink black hair.

The three Blacks were in fact so persistent Harry suspected their parents had learned of them being Parselmouths and ordered their children to make friends with them.

Harry didn't mind that much, though, when Alphard turned out to be a great addition to the little group that consisted of himself and Silas. The first year was just as licentious and silly as Harry could ever hope for in a friend and inspired the other two to sneak around Hogwarts, looking for adventure. Tom joined them a few times at first as he didn't want to let Harry out of his sight, but gradually lost interest and told them that as long as they didn't find the chamber of secrets without him, they could have their stupid adventures for themselves for all he cared. It suited them just fine, although they didn't dare say so in the presence of their easily ticked off friend.

Something else that came as a pleasant bonus was that Dido had stopped ignoring him, actually speaking to him at times, and that Eileen had stopped avoiding him, but actually searched him out as well, looking admiring and fluttering her eyelashes at him. Harry didn't know what to make of the girl and felt a bit uncomfortable in her presence, but at the same time was overjoyed she finally saw his way and listened to what he had tried to tell her for half a year.

At the same time the students in Slytherin started tying bonds of friendship, already solid bonds of camaraderie began to loosen up in the Gryffindor house. Harry found out when he unsuspectingly stepped through the threshold to his own dormitory, after a long day of lessons, adventures and duels in the Slytherdor room, and was hit to the ground by an alarm clock flying around the room, ringing furiously. No-one took notice of him, however, as they were all heads deep in a vicious argument – Ignatius and Lambert standing in one end of the room, Isidorus on his own in the other.

From what Harry could make out they were fighting over something which had happened in the acting group, Isidorus apparently the one having done something outrageous in the others' eyes.

Not in the mood to deal with any of _that_, Harry floated his pyjamas and toilet-bag across the battlefield with a murmured "_wingardium leviosa_", turned on his heel and padded up the stairs until he came to the door with golden letters on it spelling "fifth year boys". Checking his wristwatch he decided against knocking, since it was half past eleven and the boys inside the room were possibly already asleep. So he simply slipped inside and sneaked across the floor when he noticed that, indeed, all three boys were sound asleep.

He smiled wickedly when he came up to Harold's bed and noticed his brother was lying on his stomach, arms spread wide, mouth agape with drool slowly dripping down onto a wet spot on the pillow. If only he had a camera...

Harold stirred lazily as a sharp finger insisted to jab him repeatedly on the shoulder. "Whatsit?" he grunted as he slowly came to and noticed his younger brother standing by his bedside.

"Can I sleep here tonight?" Harry whispered carefully, Harold's eyes were dull with sleep as he watched the other with a deep frown on his forehead.

"Why?" he asked in a groggy voice.

"My dorm's invaded by alarm clocks," Harry whispered with a smirk and Harold nodded importantly as if it made perfect sense.

Harry hurried to finish his toilet, being perfectly silent, and soon crawled under the covers next to his brother, making sure the other got the pillow infested by drool.

The night became dragged out and tedious as Harold's sleeping habits came to show. He would stretch out all over the bed, and when his unconscious body found out there was something in the way it decided to cling to it, insisting on spooning Harry, who struggled in vain all night long.

He'd finally fallen asleep, but woken up again with Harold's dorm mates standing next to the bed, snickering and taking pictures with a magical camera.

"Look, it's HarHar!" they breathed out between bouts of laughter, which became louder and louder, until they finally woke Harold up, enabling Harry to finally escape the slackening hold and get out of bed.

As he came down to his own dormitory, however, he firmly decided the night he'd had was highly preferred to the one he could have had.

The room was in ruins, all beds turned over, closets gaping empty with their clothes spread all over, owl cages, quills, books – everything was a mess. And in the middle of it stood Charlus, throwing _reparo_ around him over and over again.

"Harry!" he exclaimed once he caught sight of his cousin. "There you are – where were you?"

"I slept with Harold," he said in a calm voice, looking around him at the devastated room. "Things got a little wild, huh?"

"They did. One of the house-elves woke me up early this morning, taking me here. The room was a mess, an even greater mess than this one. And on each side was your dorm mates, throwing curses at each other. I took the lot of them to Dumbledore – I've never seen him that angry before."

"So, where are they now?" Harry asked, finding the situation quite humorous because it was something he wasn't tangled up in for once. Charlus, on the other hand, seemed to find nothing entertaining about it and had his face scrunched up in a deep sneer.

"Split up, I hope! They will spend the entire day scrubbing cauldrons and polishing trophies, I'd imagine."

"Wow, tough luck," Harry breathed out getting a look of disbelief from his cousin. "I mean, it's the Quidditch final today – they'll miss it," he explained hurriedly.

"For good reasons," Charlus said in a gruff tone of voice.

Indeed it was the day of the final Quidditch-match of the year – Slytherin against Hufflepuff. And Harry would be cheering for Slytherin. It felt mighty weird.

The first match after the holidays had been won by Gryffindor as they once again caught the snitch before the Hufflepuffs, although the badgers had scored way more goals than the lions. The second match nearly became a slaughter as Slytherin scored goal after goal – but in the last second, just before they were about to score their 15th one, the Ravenclaw seeker caught the snitch, making the eagles win by 10 points. After that their luck ran out as they faced the lions and were clearly outmatched and beaten hands down.

At the moment Gryffindor was at the top of the tournament with 520 points. Second came Hufflepuff with 380, then Slytherin with 260 and lastly Ravenclaw with 230. The last game of the year stood between the snakes and the badgers, and if Hufflepuff caught the snitch it would be over for the Gryffindor team and the Quidditch cup would find a new home in the cellars. The snakes hardly stood a chance to catch up with the lions' points, but would have to score 12 goals _and_ catch the snitch to win the tournament.

Hence, Harry rooted for Slytherin. What made it feel even weirder was that he, as always, would be watching the game from the Slytherin stands, cheering along with the people around him. It had been fine the other times since he'd always been able to distance himself from the people around him to cheer for the opposite team if the snakes were playing, or his own team if the lions were in game.

This time around he'd have to go all out Slytherin. He comforted himself with the thought he couldn't overdo it, since if the snakes scored too many goals they'd win altogether, and that wouldn't do at all!

* * *

Harry was sitting at the Gryffindor table, having dinner with Lora and her dorm mates, when Lambert and the Prewett twins walked through the doorway into the great hall and immediately split up. Ignatius took his still loyal friend with him to sit higher up near the head table while Isidorus walked up to Harry and sat down to his left, sighing deeply and looking with detachment at his sore hands sporting impressive raising fingers.

"Who won?" he rasped out, clearly tired beyond measure. Harry wondered privately if he'd gotten any sleep last night or if he'd been up fighting through it.

"Don't you wanna know?" he said with a leer and Isidorus pierced him with a nasty glare.

"Slytherin won, with 280 points. Whey won the entire thing," Lora said, taking pity on the plump, depressed looking boy in front of her.

"I don't believe it," he grunt out and buried his head in his arms, looking as if he'd taken his last breath just before he could get some life-sustaining food into his body.

"No, it was quite incredible," Rowan agreed, nodding to herself. "Probably the most exciting game of the year."

"Too bad you missed it, Icy," Harry said, wagging his eyebrows teasingly.

"Stop being so cruel," Lora berated him and he stopped wagging, but still found the situation humorous on the inside. He suspected he'd acquired this weird sort of humour from hanging out too much with his Slytherin friends. Bastards.

"Don't call me Icy," Isidorus grunt out, voice thick as if he was holding back tears.

"Why not?" Bree asked with a cute frown.

"We had a fight, alright!" the other said in a rough voice, sitting up again, showing off eyes simmering with held back tears. "We can't be fire and ice any more... Just call me Isi instead."

Harry and Rowan burst out laughing in disbelief, Lora just staring at the wheat blonde boy in front of her while Bree's frown was deepening. "But it sounds exactly the same," she said in confusion.

"It does!" Harry agreed between snickers and Isidorus' puffy face acquired a deep shade of crimson.

"Well, it's spelled differently! It's short for Isidorus! I. S. I. There!"

"Still sounds the same," Rowan said with a wide grin, faltering quickly when Lora pierced her and Harry with a glare of disagreement.

"Why don't we just call you Isidor? It's simpler than Isidorus and it doesn't sound like your previous nickname," she said in a calm tone, smiling kindly to the upset boy who nodded his agreement.

From that day on Isidorus stuck to Lora and her gang like a band-aid. Harry liked him well enough, and found his company acceptable at meals and Slytherin free lessons, although he preferred the company of Tom and his other Slytherin friends. Seeing him being all friendly with the enemy, Lambert and Ignatius had started ignoring Harry as well and the climate in the dormitory became tense at best. Harry felt dread whenever he went to bed and relief when getting down to breakfast.

June came and all the end of term tests began. Harry felt immense relief he wasn't in fifth or seventh year as he saw his brother and cousin work themselves into exhaustion the last couple of days before the OWL exams and the NEWT exams would take place.

As he walked into the last art lesson of the term it was with a sting in his heart he realized that one: Leda would be graduating this year and two: that he probably would switch to the Quidditch team next year. This would be his last art lesson.

When it was done he applauded with the rest of the club members before walking up to Leda and giving him a fierce hug around the waist. The art club leader patted him softly on the back and put a warm palm onto the side of his face when he looked up into ocean blue eyes.

"We will meet again," Leda said and smiled softly. "Be good, don't forget your heart and never lose track of your counterpart, _Antevorta._"

It was with a heavy heart he walked out of the art club room, Tom and Serena to his side. "I can't believe it's over," he said in a weak voice.

"What's over?" Serena asked with a tilt to her head.

"I won't come back after the summer. I'll join the Quidditch team instead," he explained and Serena nodded her understanding. "But I bet you'll stay," Harry said, smiling at her.

"Oh, I will," she said with a soft smile, looking at Tom to her right. "How about you?"

"I will stay," he said shortly, still not interested in keeping up conversation with a girl, it appeared. They walked out of the third floor corridor and descended the staircases, making their way to the first floor and the Gryffinpuff room.

"There are electives to pick out for next year as well," Harry said to break the crisp silence that stretched between them as they picked what they wanted from the middle buffet table. "I guess we better start thinking about what we want to do after Hogwarts, so that we make the right choices. I bet it won't matter for you, though, Serena, you'll be an artist, right?"

"I don't know," she said hesitantly, picking out a piece of cheese cake and following Tom towards one of the free tables. "I think I'll become part of the Wizengamot in the future."

"What, you'll work for the ministry?" Harry asked in confusion. He'd been certain Serena would want to keep on painting – and it was a highly esteemed profession that paid well as well.

"Yes, well, that's what my father thinks and expects of me, at least. He wants me to pick up his cloak. Although, I'd love to become an artist instead."

Harry didn't really know what to say to that. Sure enough, Serena had hinted before that her father was not all that he appeared to be to the outside world, yet, the minister had still seemed like a good enough person. But would he really push his daughter towards a future she didn't want?

"I think you shouldn't pay that much attention to what he says – living somebody else's life is a waste," Tom drawled in a cold tone of voice, sipping his cup of tea carefully.

Serena looked down, studying her plate intensely, murmuring "piece of cake" under her breath. Harry wasn't sure if she refereed to what was on her plate or meant that opposing her father would be easy. Or perhaps she was being sarcastic?

"That applies to you too, Harry," Tom said once he'd put down the cup onto the table. "I've heard how you go on and on about how your father was an auror and how you want to be one as well."

"Well, that... But that's not the same thing! I actually _want _to become an auror!" he hurried to defend himself with. Tom looked utterly unimpressed.

"Really now? And here I was under the impression you dislike hurting people."

"What? Well, yeah I do, but... Being an auror has nothing to do with hurting people!"

"No?" Tom said with a leer. "The people the aurors hunt down never get hurt, is that what you're saying?"

"But, they're criminals! They're bad people!" Harry exclaimed.

"They are people opposing the ministry, that doesn't necessarily make them into bad people. The aurors are nothing more that mindless blood-bags that jumps whenever the ministry tells them to jump. There is no good or bad, Harry, only power. And some people that has a great deal of power shouldn't have any."

"What, so you're saying the ministry is bad?"

"What I'm saying is that the ministry cares for nothing other than what's best for the ministry. It's corrupt, and so are its leaders," Tom said in a lecturing voice, looking at Serena while smirking wickedly, as if eager to see how she would react to such a blatant insult to her father and future career.

He acquired a look of disappointment as she simply arose from her seat and walked out the door, not saying a word. "Now look what you did!" Harry hissed at him, but Tom only smiled happily.

"Good riddance!" he said and took another sip of his cup of tea.

"You're unbelievable," Harry said, shaking his head. He wasn't angry though, he actually though Tom had a point with what he was saying. It could be because all authorities he had ever encountered had been quite useless to him and he found it hard to trust grown ups in general. His lack of trust in them was what had led him to go after the Philosopher's Stone last year, and what had hindered him from seeking out someone to help him through the ordeal with the diary this year. He usually found he could solve his troubles much better on his own.

"So, what do you want to be, then, when you finish your studies?" he asked in interest.

"I want to travel," Tom said, a wicked glint appearing in his dark green eyes. "I want to learn more about all kinds of magic. I want to be powerful."

"So... you want to be an adventurer, or something?" Harry asked in intrigue.

"I suppose you could say that..." Tom drawled and took a bite out of his sandwich.

"Wicked!" Harry breathed, smiling widely. "Yeah, I reckon that would be quite awesome."

They sat in silence for a while, enjoying each other's company. It was weird, Harry mused, how he had come to like someone this much, whom he'd just half a year before hated with all his heart. But now he could honestly say he liked his friend. Very much! It'd be a long summer without his company every day like he was used to.

"Hey, Tom," he said, meeting the other's eyes. "D'you reckon I could come visit you in the summer?"

* * *

_A/N: Oh god, this was a challenge! Hopefully the next one will be easier to write since it is the start of the part which had me writing this story from the beginning. Thank you for the wonderful reviews, they make my heart soar with joy. _

_Mischief managed! _


	11. Bring Me Home in a Blinding Dream

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Eleven

_Bring Me Home in a Blinding Dream_

* * *

Silverware clanked against porcelain plates as the Potter family sat having pancakes for breakfast. Around them frying pans, pots and ingredients swooshed around, cleaning up and putting themselves back onto their proper places. Broken eggshells and spilled flour were swept up onto a shovel by an erratically sweeping broom and thrown into the filled-to-the-rim garbage bag, that knotted itself together and swooshed towards the back door, letting it out to be swallowed by the trash bin outside.

Walter Potter was telling his family about an odd case he'd worked on for the last couple of days at the ministry.

"And then, when I got there, as it turned out, the poor old fart had turned the cat into a mouse trap. No wonders he couldn't find it!" he exclaimed, widely grinning, arms lively helping telling the tale. His family laughed loudly with him. "So I couldn't help but point out to the man, at least the poor creature was still doing its job – catching mice!" And the Potters laughed merrily again.

Harry had the time of his life, sitting doing something as normal as having breakfast with his family. He'd gotten what he'd always wanted – and he _loved _it. Every single second of it.

He'd been home for about a week now and wouldn't have it any other way. But, as expected, he'd started to miss his best friend. The days seemed empty somehow without Tom there to try and boss him around, whisper things in their private language of parseltongue or engage him in one argument or another. It got lonely, and he hadn't been able to send him a lot of letters either since there were too many muggles in London who could start wondering if an owl came flying in and out of the same window each and every day.

Nevertheless, he _had_ sent a few letters, and they'd eventually reached a decision regarding when to meet up. Harry suspected that his friend had started to miss him too, although he most certainly would be caught dead before he admitted anything of the sort.

But he'd sent his address, at last, and Walter would be taking Harry there today, right after breakfast. The excitement had made him choke down his pancakes record time, anxious to get on his way, which hadn't been so smart when he thought about it later, since he'd still have to wait for the others to finish their portions before he would be excused. This family-thing was complicated, he privately thought sometimes, unused as he was to their conventions and traditions.

But finally, they were all done and Nicole looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, showing it was almost ten am. "Well then," she said, smiling at her new little family member, "you better get going. We'll come pick you up again at six, alright? Leonard and his family are coming over for dinner tonight, remember?"

Harry and Walter were soon on their way, travelling by apparition into one of the run down suburbs of London, appearing next to a gigantic industry building, smoke billowing out from out of enormous, brown, cigar-like chimneys.

Following the dull asphalt road into more civilized areas they soon came to stand in front of the building which had the correct address. It was made out of nothing but bricks, square in shape and surrounding it was a wall of railings, as if the owners wanted to keep something dangerous out – or in...

Harry followed his father as he confidently stepped through the grand gates, with a sign over them which read "Wool's Orphanage", and stood close to him as Walter rapped sharply onto the front door. Harry had a look around as they waited and found his surroundings very discouraging. Did people actually live here? It looked like the ghost town of Cokeworth that Snape had led him through about a year ago. Run down without many signs of life. The courtyard inside the fence was entirely made out of gravel and completely void of people.

Just when Harry started having doubts about them having the right address after all the door opened up, the head of a skinny, sharp featured woman sticking out, a deep frown on her forehead. She took one look at Walter's maroon outer-robe and acquired a look of wonder, softening her jawline a little.

"Another one," she muttered to herself before opening up the door a bit wider and straightening up. "Yes?" she snapped out a little louder.

"Walter Potter," Harry's father introduced himself calmly, grasping the woman's thin pale hand in a firm grip.

"Anna Cole," the woman replied and narrowed her eyes onto Harry, making him draw back slightly in discomfort.

"This is my son," Walter said, noticing where her eyes went, "Harry. He has come to visit Tom for the day. Tom Riddle, that is. I'm sure he's expected?"

Mrs Cole's eyes narrowed even further, her face wrinkling horribly, making her look 20 years older. "He's here for Riddle?" she asked slowly, sneering badly. "What has that misfortune cooked up this time, I wonder? No, we were not expecting any visits today, Mr Potter."

"I see," Walter said, putting a comforting hand onto Harry's shivering shoulder. "Well then, as we have come all this way, perhaps we might as well come in?"

Mrs Cole looked indecisive for a moment, casting glances behind her, before meeting the firm gaze of the man on the other side of the threshold bravely. "Might as well," she agreed and stepped aside, letting them in.

Inside they found themselves in a narrow hallway, a steep staircase to the left leading up to another level of the building, where faint cries of an infant could be heard. The scrawny woman in her patchy old dress led them into a sitting room at the end of the hall, passing by a small kitchen and thereafter a dining hall on the way. Everything inside the building was clean but worn out. Even the yellowing tapestries covering the walls seemed on the brink of giving up.

In the sitting room they found the first sign this was actually a place housing children. Eleven of them, of varying age, playing quietly or reading to themselves. They were all dressed in the same sort of grey pyjamas-like garments – having an eerie resemblance to the kind of clothing the muggles made their prisoners wear, Harry thought.

He caught sight of Tom immediately, and the other pierced him with a look as well, casting furious glances towards Walter as if asking what on earth he was doing there.

"Riddle!" Mrs Cole snapped, and Tom hurried forwards to come stand as close to Harry as he could. The boys grasped hands discretely behind their backs.

"Yes, madam?" he said in a polite tone, not looking up from the floor in show of submission.

"What is the meaning of this?" she snapped, grasping Tom's upper arm in a grip that couldn't be anything else than painful. The hand in Harry's gripped tighter.

Before anything else could happen, Walter cleared his throat and looked Mrs Cole sternly in the eyes. "May I have a word, madam? In the kitchen, perhaps?"

The two adults made themselves scarce and Tom pulled Harry with him to a secluded corner in the room, housing a tattered leather sofa. "Why is _he_ here?" he hissed out once they'd sat themselves down.

"Well, he brought me here, didn't he," Harry hissed back, swallowing against a heavy lump in his throat. What was this place? "It's apparently what parents do when their kids want to visit someone. They wouldn't let me come on my own."

"Maybe you should've tried harder, then." Tom seemed shaken beneath the surface, uncertain, out of control as he'd just been forced into sharing some of his darkest secrets with Harry's father against his will. And Harry knew exactly how much his control freak of a friend loathed being left without a choice.

"So... this is your home?" Harry murmured softly in the privacy of Parseltongue. Tom looked affronted at that and snatched his hand away roughly.

"Of course not," he hissed, glaring at the group of children playing with dolls in the other corner of the room. "Hogwarts is my home. This – well, this is just where I live... It's nothing."

Harry understood every single word. "I get it," he reassured. "Remember what I told you of the Dursleys? It was the same – I lived with them, but it wasn't home."

The two boys didn't say anything but just sat next to each other in the sofa, waiting for whatever was going on in the kitchen to play out. At one point a woman, who looked younger than Mrs Cole, came down from upstairs, carrying a baby in her arms, singing a lullaby and rocking it gently to sleep.

"She seems alright," Harry murmured but Tom only sneered in disagreement.

"She's weak, just like the rest of them. They can't do nothing. They try and act all mighty, but as soon as _he _comes back they shrink into what they really are – women. Useless women."

"Who's _he_?" Harry asked carefully, choosing not to pick a fight by correcting Tom on his view on women, just this once.

"Mr Cole, he's..." the other said, snapping his mouth shut as the door to the kitchen flew open and a furious looking Walter stepped outside, scanning over the sitting room before finding where his son was seated.

"Come on, we're leaving," he declared in a short tone and waved for the boys to come closer.

"But, we just got here," Harry said, trying not to sound whiny. "I wanted to be with Tom."

"Tom is coming with us, Harry," Walter said, narrowing his eyes on Mrs Cole, who stood leaning against the kitchen door frame, arms crossed over her flat chest. "Go on, run upstairs and pack."

Harry hurried to drag his stunned friend up the steep staircase and into a dark hallway, lined with door after door – probably with little bedrooms behind them. "Where's yours?" he asked softly. Tom took the lead and walked up a second set of stairs, through the first door of the corridor and into a narrow little room without much in it. There was a bed, a rickety chair and a closet. In the corner stood Tom's second hand Hogwarts trunk. On the chair, used as a bedside table, lay last year's potions textbook, one page marked with a slip of paper, working as a bookmark. Harry noticed it was one of his letters.

Tom emptied the closet in one go, nothing much in it, toed on his worn, brown shoes and put the potions book into the trunk before closing it. They helped each other carrying it down the stairs and were soon standing at ground floor, panting heavily. Mrs Cole pierced them with a narrow glare and the woman with the baby looked at them in wonder.

"Has he been adopted, then?" she asked in a high pitched tone.

Nobody answered her as Walter simply ushered the boys outside and grabbed hold of the trunk to pull it outside himself.

Harry couldn't help thinking of that one time when a grown man had come pulling _his_ trunk outside, taking him with him as a sour looking woman stood watching from inside.

* * *

"So, this is your room," Tom stated in a level voice, sitting on Harry's fluffy bed, looking around with a sceptical frown on his forehead.

"Yeah," Harry said lamely from his perch by the door frame, not really knowing what to do with himself, nervous for some reason. "You like it?"

"It's red," Tom deadpanned, "and I figured it'd be bigger... But I guess it's alright."

Harry let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, relieved for some reason that his best friend didn't hate his room. He sat down next to Tom on the bed, feeling like he could finally relax – being at home again and having his much missed friend with him.

"What now?" Tom asked in a slightly bored tone of voice, as if he didn't really care either way.

"I don't know," Harry confessed. "I reckon Dad's gonna go figure stuff out at the ministry, and well, you'll stay here in the meantime... But, I don't have a clue as to anything else."

"Alright," Tom said and stood up to waltz around the room, pulling out drawers and searching through every little cranny he could find where there could be things to explore. Harry watched him with an amused smile on his lips, but didn't say anything to interrupt him.

"What were you about to tell me about Mr Cole, back at the... there... You were about to say something, but then Walter- I mean, _D__ad_ came out from the kitchen..."

Tom halted in his search for a couple of seconds, before continuing as if nothing had happened. "I don't know what I was going to say," he claimed in a bored drawl.

"No, but you said: 'Mr Cole, he's...', and then what?" Harry pressed impatiently.

Tom sighed deeply and glared at the pictures of the Potter families hanging on the wall, waving cheerfully at him. "Mr Cole is the husband of Mrs Cole... Obviously. He's a factory worker who leaves home early in the morning, comes back late at night and gets drunk in the weekends. He's nothing special. Inferior, actually, just a Muggle."

"Oh, so he's the one that raised you, then? Along with his wife and that other woman?"

"Martha," Tom said in a cold voice, turning around to face Harry, his eyes flashing with contempt. "Yes, he raised me alright! Taught me good, didn't he? Let me know what a low life I was, how little I mattered, how _insignificant_ I was to the bigger picture. I could just go die somewhere and no-one would care, couldn't I? He could just lock me up in my room and no-one would come for me. No-one.

"You know, sometimes when I was younger, I tried to defend myself, to preserve what little sense of self I had left. But he outmatched me – he outmatched _everyone_, even his wife. I'd hear them sometimes, through the walls. How he beat her. And I knew she was weak – she couldn't do nothing. She couldn't save me either. Nobody could.

"I went through my entire childhood, sure he'd lose it someday and simply kill me. Just like that. Without warning. Because I was always singled out. Out of all the children at... there, I was never let out. He made sure of it. Made sure I was never adopted – said I was like a son to him and that he wouldn't let me go. And I couldn't hurt him. I don't know why, I could hurt everybody else, not him. It's mental! The one person I really needed to defend myself against, and I can't!"

Tom's rant came out in cascades, running faster and faster over his tongue, as if someone had opened up a dam which had held in all emotions and thoughts for years and years. But he didn't cry – he was angry, disgusted, hurt, affronted, uncertain.

Harry couldn't take it any more, but flew from the bed and enclosed Tom into a tight embrace, efficiently stopping the flood of words, only laboured breathing remaining in its wake. Shivering arms came up to clutch back around his waist, a chin leaning itself against his right shoulder.

"It's over now, you're not going back there. Ever. I promise," Harry said in a soft voice, patting his friend's back with gentle strokes. Tom simply nodded against his shoulder, letting out a deep breath.

"You can cry, you know, I won't mind. It'll feel better if you do."

"I don't cry," Tom claimed in a steady, although a tad bit thick, voice.

"What, you've never cried? Come on," Harry said in a slightly teasing tone.

"Barely even when I was a baby," Tom claimed completely tonelessly, making Harry believe him instantly, although it seemed impossible. He held on even more fiercely, his heart aching for the pains his best friend had had to endure throughout his entire childhood. Troubles even far more severe than Harry's own.

"Alright," he said and the other relaxed completely in his hold, not letting go.

* * *

"... and that horrendous woman actually had the guts to smile when I declared I was taking the boy. I couldn't see clearly it made me so angry! Nearly cursed her to the floor, I did."

It was evening and the Potters plus Tom sat at the kitchen table, having dinner. They had had to conjure a few stools to add to the usual set of six, the new ones close replicas of the real ones – only with the habit of giving a start once in a while, resulting in lots of spilled drinks and forks of food ending up in laps and on the floor.

The adults and Charlus were engaged in a furious argument over what had transpired that morning, all agreeing that Walter had done the right thing in snatching the boy away from that horrible place where no child should be forced to grow up, let alone a _magical_ one.

Harold had a deep frown on his forehead, following the conversation closely, snapping his head from one side to the other to look at the one speaking at the moment. Lora was sitting casting sympathetic looks at Tom, nodding importantly whenever one of the adults made a particularly strong point.

Tom himself was sitting next to Harry, as close as he could so that their shoulders touched, staring down at his plate with a neutral expression, not uttering a word. Now and again he'd hiss under his breath, in the language only his friend could understand, how much he wanted the others to mind their own bloody business, how he didn't need nor want their help and that he _definitely_ wasn't a helpless child.

Harry was sitting in the midst of it all, feeling a bit out of it, understanding exactly how his best friend felt at the moment but at the same time wanting nothing more than to help the others help him.

"But you went to the ministry today, did you not? What did they tell you?"

"Bah, those bastards – can't do anything properly, I tell you! Stood in line in the Muggle Liaison Office for just about two hours, and then I got to speak to the _lovely _Wanda Knob who told me, quite literally, they were busy at the moment, but would make sure to do their best and get back to me in a few weeks."

"_Weeks?_"

"That's outrageous!"

"But did you tell her properly of the severity of the situation?"

"I told her, alright. And she seemed rather interested too, at first, before I told her of his last name. That had her turning her nose up, bloody purist!"

"What, so she didn't help him because he wasn't a Pure-blood?"

"Oh, but that's horrible!"

Harry could feel his friend tensing at his side, hissing viciously at being treated poorly, not only because he was a minor, also because of his heritage. Or, perhaps more accurately, lack thereof.

"So what do we do now?"

"But of course he'll stay here – for as long as he needs and wants to."

"Yes, but else than that? He needs a proper home, just like anyone else."

There was a heavy silence as they all contemplated the situation. Aunt Katherine pierced Tom with a narrow-eyed look.

"What do you know of your parents, boy?"

Tom looked up slowly, putting on an act of being nervous and vulnerable. "Not much," he said softly. "My mother died just after giving birth, but I don't know anything of my father. Only, I was named after him. His name was also Tom Riddle."

"Tom _Riddle_, you said?" she gasped, meeting the surprised eyes of her husband over the table. "I don't suppose it could be a relation to that _Thomas Riddle_ in Little Hangleton, could it? That squire Muggle in that lavish mansion? Didn't he and Mary have a son named Tom?"

"It all fits," Uncle Leonard agreed. "I've met that old chap a few times – he looks a lot like you, son, only much older of course. Never seen his kid though."

"No, but wasn't he called in to serve in the Muggle war about a year ago?" Harry's aunt and uncle looked at each other in silence for what felt like hours, and then arose as one.

"We'll go have a chat with them. I'm sorry to cut this lovely dinner short," Aunt Katherine said, kissing Nicole's both cheeks farewell, and waving for her children to come along. They all left in a frenzy, and soon Harry and Tom were left alone in the kitchen, the others standing on the porch waving the guests goodbye. The conjured stools disappeared one by one with hollow 'pops'.

"So, he's been alive, all this time, and hasn't bothered to come for me," Tom hissed out, throwing his fork over the table and into the kitchen-sink, it landing with a loud clank amongst the rest of the dishes, water and foam splashing down the counter and landing next to a dropped sausage on the floor.

"Perhaps he didn't know," Harry said carefully and got a nasty glare in return. That was when Harold returned to the room, looking like he had a lot of energy to spare, but not knowing what to do about it.

"Hey, wanna go swim? There's a lake not ten minutes from here. We can take the brooms!"

* * *

Next morning, as they sat having breakfast, there was a muffled cracking sound from outside before the front door flew open and an excited looking Uncle Leonard barged inside, followed by his ever graceful wife.

"Morning!" he exclaimed with a grin, taking a seat next to his brother and stealing a bite out of the other's half-eaten sandwich. "Yesterday was a huge success!"

"I wouldn't call it _that_," Aunt Katherine disagreed, conjuring a chair and sitting down as well. "The butler almost sent the dogs after us, thinking we were some con artists plotting to press the gentry on money."

"Yes, alright, but after that-" Uncle Leonard argued but was interrupted instantly.

"After _that_ we got to meet the lovely Thomas and Mary Riddle, beautiful looks of disgust on their faces, oh they were just wonderful, weren't they?"

"I see your point, dear," her husband coaxed gently, shooting her an amused glance, "but you have got to agree the lad was all we could wish for – definitely your father, Tom, he looks just like you."

"Yes," Aunt Katherine drawled, her nostrils flaring slightly. "But _hardly_ all we could wish for, _dear_, the man is a cripple!"

"For good reasons, love, he's a war hero!"

Aunt Katherine only snorted her disagreement, but kept her peace, curling the corners of her mouth upwards into a small smirk, murmuring about stupid Muggles who couldn't even heal themselves properly.

"So you found them then?" Nicole breathed out, a look of relief on her heart shaped face. "Will they take him?"

"Oh they will!" Uncle Leonard said, grinning widely. "The lad was overjoyed he had a son – had no clue! Thought he'd go child-less because of his... condition... Well, he's very excited to see you, son." He winked conspiratorially to Tom, who didn't change his stony expression one bit, but only watched dispassionately as everything played out in front of him.

The boys were ushered upstairs to get dressed and soon stood in the hallway, dressed in Harry's clothes, as they thankfully were still the exact same size. Aunt Katherine looked over her nose down at her nephew, raising her brows in question.

"And what do you think you are doing, young man?"

Harry opened his mouth, but couldn't find any words. He wasn't allowed to join them?

"He's coming with me," Tom declared and grasped his hand in a claiming grip, challenging the stern woman to disagree.

"Really?" Aunt Katherine drawled, looking unimpressed. "And why is that? Leonard and I are only taking you there, after all. Don't you want to meet your family in private?"

"Harry is the only family I need," Tom said tonelessly, no expression on his face what so ever. Harry felt his heart clench at the confession, and allowed himself to ignore his own scepticism on them being related, just this once. He tightened the hold on Tom's hand instead.

Aunt Katherine looked surprised beyond words, but Uncle Leonard only chuckled happily, slamming his hand onto Tom's right shoulder. "Hey, cut them some slack, pumpkin, let him come if that's what they want." And with that he led the two boys outside, his wife following a few steps behind.

He pulled Harry through a side along apparition, while Aunt Katherine took Tom, and they soon found themselves a few paces up the road from the couple's house in Little Hangleton. A well kept gravel road led out of the village and onto a hill, where a grand mansion could be seen. The group of four headed that way.

It took them five minutes to walk all the way there, and two extra to walk up the pathway to the house itself – the garden was that big. It consisted of a velvety green lawn, well trimmed bushes and an alley of maple trees lining the pathway up to the house. Near the gates stood something that looked like a stable as well as smaller houses, which were possibly inhabited by servants, Harry thought. Surrounding the mansion was, on one side, a great forest, on the other billowing meadows and pastures, where gallant horses grazed peacefully.

The mansion itself was very handsome, made in cream white bricks and a copper roof, green in colour due to age. Ivy climbed up the façade, sometimes invading the great glass windows, no doubt letting in a generous amount of sunlight into the great halls inside.

As Aunt Katherine took her first footstep onto the lowest step of the stairs leading to the front porch, it opened up and a thick set, tailcoat clad man stepped outside, holding it open for them.

"You are expected," he explained in a cold drawl, apparently not overjoyed by having to invite _commoners_ into his masters' home. Aunt Katherine didn't bother acknowledging him at all, but simply stepped past and inside, while Uncle Leonard smiled at the balding old man and said, "Good day!" in a chirpy tone.

The witch seemed to know where she was going, as she simply scurried forwards, leading them into a brightly lit sitting room, furnished lavishly in soft creamy colours. Clearly a place for rich people, all the rooms they passed had electric lamps hanging from the ceiling. Harry thought he could actually spot a telephone in the corner of one room as well. This family obviously kept up with the trends and new inventions.

As they all came to stand inside the grand room, they caught sight of three Muggles, two of whom immediately arose to their feet, the third one stuck in a wheelchair. Harry almost did a double-take as he laid eyes on the sitting man, he looked so familiar. Exactly like Tom – from the slim body shape to the deep green of the eyes. Only, naturally, much older.

The other man looked older still, but also with looks similar to Tom's, just not as spot-on as those of the other. The woman was thin, stern looking with a lot of wrinkles, her grey hair rolled up into handsome curls sitting in a neat hairdo, some strands flowing down her straight back.

"Mr Potter, Mrs Potter," she greeted, her husband nodding shortly to the visitors from behind her.

"Good day," Aunt Katherine said, the Riddles sneering at the lack of manners, but the witch seemed unbothered and only smirked unkindly at them. She obviously did not like them in the least.

"Where is my son?" came the sharp, slightly shaking voice from Tom Sr, the wheelchair making a squeaky noise as it rolled forwards, enabling the anxious looking man to catch sight of the shorter visitors.

"There's two of them?" he gasped out, piercing both boys with a hungry look that was oh so familiar to Harry, having seen it on Tom's face plenty of times.

"No," Uncle Leonard said with a tense smile, laying a protective hand onto Harry's left shoulder. "This is Harry, my nephew. The other one is Tom, your son."

"My son," the other rasped out, a shaky hand covering his mouth protectively as the dark green eyes roamed over Tom's body.

"They look much alike," Lord Thomas pointed out, hawk-like eyes snapping between the two boys in front of them. Harry shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"Don't they?" Uncle Leonard agreed, smile broadening. "A mysterious coincidence, I assure you."

The two elders narrowed their eyes suspiciously, as if they found everything mysterious far from desirable. Tom Sr, on the other hand, didn't seem to listen but only looked at his son with watery eyes, as if he couldn't have enough of him. "...closer," he rasped out and cleared his throat discreetly behind the hand. "Come closer, son," he said in a more steady voice.

Tom stiffened further and quickly snatched hold of Harry's hand, pulling him with as he stepped closer to the wheeled man. Harry was deeply surprised at first Tom would want to hold his hand through the whole thing – but didn't cork up his mental champagne just yet as he suspected the other was simply keeping tabs on him as per usual, the tight grip disabling him from leaving until Tom himself deemed it alright for him to do so.

They soon stood at the side of the wheelchair, Tom closest to his father, and was suddenly pulled into a tight hug, Tom Sr finally bristling and bursting out in tears, chanting "My son, my son, my son," over and over again. Tom stood stiffly bent into the embrace, but didn't move, only stared into the wall, clutching Harry's hand tightly.

The father eventually let go, only then noticing his son held hands with someone, and swapped his eyes over onto Harry for a second. "Harry, was it?" he asked in a thick voice, hand still roaming over Tom's back possessively.

"Yes," Harry said simply, smiling softly at him.

"And you are a friend of Tom's?"

"His best friend," he answered with a toothy grin, the other smiling in kin at him.

"I see," he said, holding out a hand for him to shake. "A pleasure to meet you, Harry. I'd ask you to call me Tom, but, I see it could be a tad bit confusing in this particular case."

A throat was cleared from behind them, and they turned around to see Lady Mary standing there, smiling an obviously faked smile. "Tom, dear, calm yourself. We have not agreed to anything yet. Why don't we all have a seat and talk this through properly, hm?"

"There is nothing to discuss, mother," Tom Sr stated in a calm tone, grasping a firm hold of his son's shoulder. "It is decided."

"Certainly not," Lord Thomas exclaimed a tad bit irritatedly, but also with a stiff smile supposed to look friendly on his lips. "Let's not make rash decisions."

"There is nothing rash about it, from my perspective," his son said, also sounding irritated by now.

"But, dear, you must understand! This boy might be your child, but all the same, his mother was... well... all but eligible," Lady Mary said in a shrill voice, sneering down at her grandchild as if he was some sort of vermin. Tom narrowed his eyes at her dangerously. So did his father.

"None of that matters, Mother. Don't you see? I have a son. A son! I don't care if he's been living on the streets in the care of a _dog_, he's mine. And I love him!"

"Now look here for a second," Lord Thomas hissed out, stepping closer in a threatening way. "You know what that bitch was like. What if he's just the same? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree!"

"No, it doesn't," Tom Sr agreed, looking his father straight in the eye. "And all the same, I don't care. I've been through war, I've seen the world fall, I've lost more than I could ever dream of. This boy is _mine_, and I'd be caught dead before I let go of him now that I've found him. He's staying."

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so much for your continued support! After the last chapter I lost a bit of confidence, not really liking what I'd written since it seemed like an awful filler to me. But, I've gotten a lot of nice reviews and feel that's past me now. Hopefully, it's a case of me being my own worst judge and not a right out crappy chapter. Hope you liked this one. A lot's gonna happen in the next one! _

_Mischief managed! _


	12. Through the Secrets That I Have Seen

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Twelve

_Through the Secrets that I Have Seen_

* * *

July came, bringing with it a brilliant weather and happy days of vacation for the entire Potter clan. They spent them together, often in Godric's Hollow, sometimes in Little Hangleton to switch it up. The eldest Potters were overjoyed to have their entire family gathered and threw dinner party after dinner party, sometimes inviting other inhabitants of the Hollow as well – such as Mr and Mrs McGonagall and their 4 years old daughter Minerva (Harry's old professor, he'd learned with slight horror), old Miss Bagshot (the famous writer of _A History of Magic_) and also the Linwood family, Lambert included.

To Harry's greater joy, he'd been able to meet other parts of his family as well. His new mother was called Nicole Bird before she became a Potter, and her little brother and father were still alive, both of them Muggles and professional gardeners.

On the other hand, Lora's mother Katherine was born into the pure-blooded family Yaxley and had a sister called Lysandra Yaxley – now Black, married to Arcturus Black, with children Callidora, Cedrella and Charis. That way Harry learned he, or at least his cousins, were related to the Longbottoms, Callidora married with Harfang Longbottom, as well as the Weasleys, through Cedrella's marriage with Septimus Weasley, and also the Crouch family, Charis being married to Caspar Crouch.

Most magical families seemed connected some way or another, and it crept him out horrendously. Didn't people get sick if they interbred too much?

He got his answer in one of the rare occasions when he visited Tom – who usually came visiting him because Mary and Thomas Riddle still weren't entire in favour of having any _special_ people running around their house.

The boys were sitting in Tom's new, lavish bedroom, enjoying the comfort, when Tom decided to retell what he'd learned about his father's past.

"He grew up here, an only child, got educated in how to run the family business – working with horses of all things. How tedious!" Tom explained with an ugly grimace, making the corners of Harry's mouth twitch upwards in amusement.

"He was a bit of a rebellious teen, he's told me, although he wouldn't say what he meant about that... And then, one day when he was 18 years old, he met my mother. A 32 years old witch by the name Merope Gaunt. He later found out she'd drugged him with love potion, but then it was too late – they were already married.

"He doesn't know why the potion suddenly stopped working, but it did and he started to understand what was going on around him. He was in denial at first, he says, didn't want to believe there was actual magic going on. But then, as he caught up on things, he bolted. Put as much distance as he could between himself and... _her_. He lived in constant fear after that, convinced she'd stand by his bedside one of those nights, spelling him to obey her once more.

"But he never heard of her again, obviously, she died after all. He couldn't bear to touch a woman after that, never getting married, good on him, although his parents were constantly nagging him about it. He thought he'd have time, he said, it's not unusual for Muggle men to marry much later than their women do after all. But then he was called into war, this late September, and... well, you've seen the results of _that_. He came back home this spring, he told me, wrapped in a package, stuck to the bed until just recently. He'll never be able to walk again.

"But he's learned to accept it all, to live with the thought there is magic, he doesn't bother me about it... although his parents don't seem to be able to give it a rest... _Muggles_!

"Even though he managed to escape, he has gotten hell from the other Gaunts ever since _she_ lay eyes on him. Marvolo, my grandfather, and Morfin, my uncle, actually got sent to Azkaban for assaulting him, and for attacking the ministry officials who came to get them. But that was even before the love potion incident, and Morfin's actually out again, giving my father hell on a regular basis."

"Your father knew all this? All that happened to the Gaunts?" Harry had asked sceptically. Since when did Muggles know of the magical prison? Or of ministry officials for that matter? Tom grinned lopsidedly at him, eyes twinkling with something that made him tense up in apprehension.

This couldn't be good...

"Come on, I want to show you something," Tom had said, stood up from the bed and walked out of the room.

This _definitely_ couldn't be good, Harry had decided, remembering being pushed up against a bathroom wall and being tortured by a cramping curse the last time his friend uttered that same sentence. He had followed cautiously.

Tom had led him out of the mansion and through the forest behind it, downhill to a little cottage in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a wall of trees. It was dirty, run down – it looked more like a sty than an actual house, Harry judged. It's entire façade was covered in moss and so many tiles had fallen off of the roof it was full of gaping holes. The windows were tiny and mostly covered by the nettles that grew beneath them. On the rotten wooden door hang a dead snake nailed to it through the head.

That was when Harry had learned what could happen if you interbred too much.

Tom had been about to throw the door open when there was a growl from above them and a very angry man in rags came jumping down from one of the crafty tree branches. His hair was thick, grimy and dust grey, his mouth sporting an impressive yellowing underbite, several teeth missing. He was standing crookedly, somehow, with a hunched back and heavy, gorilla-like arms hanging from their sockets. But the most discouraging about him was his eyes, which was small and dark black, looking in opposite directions.

"Get lost, you urchins!" the man had hissed out in a vicious voice, so fright inspiring Harry had actually taken a big step backwards without even thinking about it.

"Uncle, it is me," Tom hissed calmly and the troll-like man visibly relaxed somewhat.

"You've got brothers?" Morfin hissed suspiciously, one of his eyes piercing Harry with a death glare, the other looking straight into the house wall beside him.

"No," Tom hissed, smiling a little, "this is Harry Potter. A _friend_ of mine."

"A Potter?" Morfin grunted out, his shoulder-blades twitching then and again, as if he wanted to make a leap. "That is acceptable."

The man had taken them into his rickety house, the interior just as run down as the exterior had been. Harry couldn't say he'd had a great time in the house of Gaunt, but he'd learned a great deal about Tom's wizarding relatives.

The Gaunt family was, apparently, the last remaining descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself, and carried the Slytherin locket with pride. Or, at least they used to, before Tom's mother had stolen it when she ran away from home with Tom Sr all those years ago. Morfin was quite obviously upset about all that his sister had done, although he didn't seem to have that much against Tom – thankfully, and had actually spat onto the grime filled floor when done speaking of her.

It turned out Merope Gaunt hadn't had that good a childhood either, and Harry didn't really know what to feel about her. On one hand she'd been a crazy old witch who had enslaved a much younger man to love her. On the other, she had been a very miserable woman, abused by her father and brother who hated her. And the grounds by why they did so was so messed up Harry had gotten a bitter taste in his mouth.

Apparently, the abuse had started as soon she was born just because her birth had been too much for her mother to take, it making her ill enough to die shortly after giving birth. The family, which was deeply conservative, had with the death of the witch lost its source of funds. They had fallen down into desperate poverty, Marvolo refusing to leave his family to work out of pure principle.

It all became worse for Merope when she'd graduated from Hogwarts with grades so low she could barely get employment at all. Her skills in magic deteriorated, and she was soon fired because the employers suspected her to be a Squib. After that her father and brother had started viewing her as completely useless and her magic had become so bad she couldn't even levitate a feather properly, Morfin said with an ugly sneer on his unfortunate face.

Marvolo had then become so angry and desperate he had deigned to take employment in place of his daughter, so that his family could actually eat. Merope was to be married off, although it would be hard to find a wizard who would agree to such a thing with "the ugly piece", as Morfin called her. It had been impossible to find a witch for him, and it would turn out to be almost as pointless to search for a wizard for his sister.

Then, Merope had fallen for a _M__uggle_, and her family had been just about angry enough to simply kill her off after that. Then, as an answer to their prayers, Marvolo had found a match for her – a 53 years old wizard from the pure-blooded Goyle line who had gone unmarried due do his looks as well. The date for the marriage was set when Merope in pure desperation had tried to drug her love interest with a love potion. Morfin had caught her at it and hexed Tom Sr with hives.

After that, the ministry had stepped in, adjusting the memory of Tom's father, and imprisoned Morfin and his father. While they were in Azkaban, Merope had successfully drugged and married her love, run away with him and the locket and never returned.

Morfin had been much more amendable about speaking of another relic the Gaunts prided themselves in. The family ring – a golden trinket with a big, black gemstone at the top of it. Engraved into the stone was a symbol of sorts. It showed a triangle shape with a circle inside, cloven in half by a line from top to bottom. Harry had felt he'd seen it before, but it was Tom who connected the dots.

"That's Grindelwald's sign," he'd said in an accusing tone of voice. Morfin had laughed at him, long and hard. If he looked frightening when angry, he looked bloody mental when laughing. It made Harry want to throw his hands in the air and run far, far away. Then, the crazed man's features turned back to angry and Harry let out a little sigh of relief.

Morfin had lectured them about the symbol, claiming it to be the mark of the Peverell brothers, powerful wizards from the 13th century whom the Gaunts were, apparently, also descendants of. Harry had started to suspect the crazy old man to be delirious, coming up with fantastic circumstances to better his otherwise ruined family pride. Then, he remembered the Parselmouth detail and got an eerie feeling that everything Morfin had told them about was actually true.

It was with great relief that he left the shabby old house shortly thereafter, following Tom back to his new home.

Harry thought his friend had taken the great change of getting a family quite well. He seemed happy, most of the time anyway. He appeared to get along well enough with his father, although he didn't seem to harbour any warm feelings for him, at least not yet. His grandparents, on the other hand, he did _not_ get along with. Not in the least. Harry didn't blame him.

Mary Riddle was a stuck up woman who clearly viewed reputation as the most important thing in life, next to social standing and finances, of course. She didn't even deign to look at her grandson, finding his existence unrefined and against every prejudiced rule and convention she'd set up in the privacy of her prim mind. She reminded Harry too much of his late Aunt Petunia for comfort – not in appearance, but in character. Lady Riddle was also that sort of person who, if she had neighbours important enough, in her opinion, would constantly be on the look out, sneaking peaks over to the other lot to judge and compare.

Thomas Riddle was quite special as well, although he wasn't nearly as hostile as his wife was towards their grandchild. Lord Riddle actually tried to form some sort of connection with Tom, even though one couldn't say he'd succeeded in that regard. He'd tried to teach Tom how to ride and care for the horses, so that he could run the family business in the future. One could say it had ended badly, to put it mildly. Harry didn't know exactly what had happened, but after some sort of incident Thomas no longer spoke or even looked at his grandson – which was an improvement, in Tom's opinion.

But as far as Harry could tell, Tom enjoyed his new home. He liked the great space of the mansion, the freedom of being able to go outside if he wanted to, not having to worry that much about air raids and bombings like he'd used to when living in the middle of London.

One of his new favourite pastimes was, to Harry's horror, bossing the mansion's servants around. He wouldn't necessarily have found it such a bad thing if his friend had stopped at ordering them to bring him sweets or make up his bed. But, no, in fact Tom used the poor Muggles like toys – bringing him things from topmost shelves just for him to take a quick look and then simply order they'd be put back again. He'd tell one of them to do one thing, such as polish his desk chair, while he ordered another one to sit in it, leaning back as he watched them trying to complete their conflicting tasks.

Harry had tried to berate his friend, but had only gotten an evil smirk in return for his troubles. There quite obviously was no helping Tom's sadistic streak.

Letting his own, flaming opinions go Harry wondered how he did it. The servants were there to serve, sure, but there had to be some sort of limit to how much they would do before they snapped. Harry had once asked for a glass of water and had only gotten a sneer in return from the up-struck butler, called Mr Bryce.

He was a man in his fifties, sporting a slight limp, probably the reason why he'd managed to stay out of the war this far. He was very snippy, and followed his mistress' orders like a trained lap dog. He also seemed to like Thomas a great deal, but he didn't seem to harbour many warm feelings towards the wheel-bound Tom Sr, although he certainly did listen to him properly.

Tom, however, seemed to be completely out of his graces and only got cold sneers and silent mutterings from the man. Despite this, to Harry's great astonishment, the butler did whatever his young master told him. _Everything_. Something wasn't right...

Tom had smiled secretly once Harry confronted him about it. "It's just something I can do," he'd said and snapped for one of the house maids to come forwards. "Watch," he'd said and turned to her fully.

"Sit down," he'd commanded her, and she'd done so. "Put your shoe on your head," he'd said, and she did as commanded, a distant look on her face. "Tell me the truth," Tom had snapped and hunched down to meet her dazed brown eyes. "Do you believe in magic?" he'd asked with a leer.

"Yes, young master," the maid had confessed in a toneless voice, "magic is the devil's work, and we must protect ourselves from it, like good Christians should."

Tom had stood up again and grinned proudly at his friend, dead sure he'd impressed the other. And Harry _was _impressed, but not in a good way – he'd felt faint. Out of breath. Backed into a corner, somehow. "B-but," he'd stuttered, "it's just like the _I__mperius_ Curse!"

"It is," Tom had agreed and grinned widely. "I can make them hurt if I want, too. Without even using a wand. I'll show you-"

"NO!" Harry had shouted and grabbed his friend by the arms in a vain attempt to hinder him somehow. "I don't want to see," he'd rasped out. "Is this what you meant about 'hurting them'? When you told me you could hurt the muggles, all but _him_... _This _is what you meant?"

Tom had had the decency to look a bit ashamed once he realized his friend didn't find his actions impressive. But Harry knew that didn't mean he would stop by any means. He just wouldn't do it when Harry could catch him at it.

* * *

It was the last week of July and Harry had finally been allowed to come and stay for a couple of nights at the Riddle mansion. It was nearing his thirteenth birthday, and he was in a cheerful mood – not even Mr Bryce's sneers could bring him down. Tom Sr greeted him cheerfully from his desk in the study, where he sat working on the budget for the family business.

"Good day, Harry. How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you," Harry said with a smile, stepping closer to the desk to take a look at the papers the other sat reading. He made a grimace once he saw all the numbers and calculations, making Tom's father chuckle bemusedly at his antics. "That doesn't look like fun," Harry concluded with a shake of his head.

"No, I agree," Tom Sr said, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly. "It's tedious work, what with the war ruining all good business. Sometimes, I wonder what it's all for. Why do they always have to fight, Harry?"

"I don't know," he confessed, thinking about the great wizarding war where his parents had perished. The war of Voldemort's insanity. "It seems rather pointless and idiotic to me."

Tom Sr smiled affectionately up at him, the corners of his dark green eyes wrinkling slightly. Harry got a fuzzy feeling in his stomach, as always when someone looked at him like that, and smiled back at his best friend's father.

"I believe Tom is in the stables, as unbelievable as it might sound," Tom Sr said, efficiently breaking the moment.

"Really?" Harry said in exasperation, frowning in mistrust. What was he up to _now_? He hated having to deal with the family's horses, Harry knew.

As soon as he got down to the stables he got his answer – Tom was showing of yet another one of his many talents.

He was standing in the middle of one of the smaller pastures, surrounded by 10 or more horses, running in a coordinated circle around him. Then, he yelled something Harry couldn't quite catch, and the animals halted their gallop to come stand with their muzzles pointing inwards, towards the boy in their midst. Tom commanded them to "stand on your back legs," and the horses complied, arising high in the air. It looked awkward – as if they were trying to imitate the human way of standing, but couldn't get it quite right due to their different body shapes.

Tom looked pleased, though, and told the horses to get down onto four legs again. Then, he commanded one of the horses, a completely black one, to kneel down in front of him. Once the animal had done so, the boy climbed onto its back, holding onto its mane while it arose to its full height. He pointed at one of the white horses and told his stallion something. The animal's eyes narrowed, its ears laid themselves flat against the sweaty neck and it charged forwards, nipping and kicking at its white friend. The other horse scurried away, running off in fright, and Tom laughed loudly; a cold, hollow laughter that made Harry's insides turn to ice.

He was just about to call out to his friend, to make him stop, when somebody else beat him to it.

"Oh NO! _What_ in the name of God are you up to, you little imp? Get down from that horse! RIGHT NOW!"

Mary Riddle, perched in a side-saddle on a handsome brown horse, looked furious. Tom pierced her with a glare and was just about to command his horse to do something else when he caught sight of Harry, standing by the fence, a look of horror on his pale face.

His entire complexion went rigid, as if caught with his hand deep down in a cookie jar. Then, he dismounted with an indifferent mask slipping onto his face, hiding his true feelings while he sauntered closer to where his friend stood looking at him.

"You're here," he said in a faked cheerful voice. There was a harrumphing noise from behind them, and Harry turned around to see Lady Mary trot away on her horse, her head held high.

"Yeah," Harry said lamely, turning back to his expressionless friend. "What are you up to?" he asked wearily.

"Just having a little fun, that's all," Tom said non-committally, shrugging his shoulders and refusing to meet his friend's eyes.

"Fun?" Harry asked in disbelief. "You made it attack another!"

"They're just animals," the other muttered in a defensive tone of voice, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So? That doesn't give you the right to use them like that." Harry glared at the other through the fence, although he knew Tom couldn't see it. It just came naturally.

"I have every right," the other argued, meeting his eyes for a brief second, before looking down again. "They're mine – that old bastard is always going on about how I have to learn about them. How I am to use them."

"I'm pretty sure he doesn't mean for you to use them like _that_. And they're not yours, you have no plans what so ever to take over the family business – who are you trying to fool?"

Tom stood glaring off in the distance, working his jaw furiously, before casting a tentative glance towards Harry. "_Fine_... Look, I know you don't like it when I do stuff like that... I won't do it again."

"Not when I can see it, you mean?" Harry asked, but he was smiling slightly, relieved his friend had learned to see reason.

"No," Tom denied, opening up the gate and slipping through out of the pasture. "I really won't go near those bloody things again. They're just useless animals anyway. Let's get inside." And with that the two boys walked up the pathway to the handsome mansion, once again at peace with each other.

* * *

Later that evening, Harry and Tom decided to play a prank on Lady Mary, both annoyed at her stuck-up behaviour. She was currently in the sitting room, on her own, reading one of those romantic _Jane Austen_ novels she liked so much. The boys sneaked closer from behind her armchair, not making a sound.

Once they were just behind the stool, Tom reached into his pocket and picked out a baby adder they'd found in the garden earlier that day. They hissed at it to slither over the floor so that it would be in full view for Lady Mary to see. And she saw it, alright.

The woman let out a terrified screech, not dissimilar to that of a displeased owl, and flew up into the armchair, pulling her skirts up while screaming as if deadly injured. "THOMAS! TOM! BRYCE! HELP, OH GOD, HELP!"

Harry and Tom broke out in uncontrolled fits of laughter and she whipped around, almost falling off the chair, and pointed accusingly at them. "_You_!" she intoned. "You little urchins – get that _dangerous _creature out of here THIS INSTANT!"

Harry took pity on her, although Tom seemed to have the time of his life, and bent down to croon the terrified little baby snake to slither his way. Once it came close enough he picked it up carefully and started petting it over the head.

He then looked up at Lady Mary, seeing she was just about to faint, flapping the romance novel in front of her face as if it was too hot in the room. "You speak to it," she gasped out, carefully climbing down from her perch in the stool, taking little steps backwards as to not stand too close.

"Are you scared now, you old vulture? Are you about to pee your pants... skirts... whatever?" Tom hissed at her, imitating her stepping backwards by stepping forwards instead.

Lady Mary let out a little yelp at hearing the snake language being spoken, turned around in a hurry and promptly fled the room, leaving her beloved book behind, discarded at the floor.

"Now _that_ was fun!" Tom said with a wide grin, Harry answering in kin. Then there was an odd screeching noise as the wheelchair of Tom Sr came rolling into the room, a frantic looking man inhabiting it.

"I heard screams," he said, looking with widening eyes at the two boys standing in the middle of the room. "That is a snake," he concluded tonelessly, a disturbed look in his eyes.

"Oh, it's not dangerous or nothing, sir, it's just a baby," Harry hurried to explain, holding the adder up into the light for all to see.

"Can you speak to it?" Tom Sr asked in a dead voice, obviously pointing the question in the direction of his son. Tom nodded silently and his father let out a little sigh. "I should have known... just like her..." he muttered, his eyes full of ghosts passed. "Please, get it out of here. No snakes in the house! Understood?"

"Of course, sir, we will," Harry said, Tom nodding at his side. "But, just so you know, it wouldn't hurt anyone. We can control it..." Or, at least Tom could, Harry confessed in the privacy of his mind. They both could speak to it, that was true, but Tom was the one who had the weird gift of commanding animals... and people for that matter.

"That is of no consequence, Harry," Tom Sr said in a tired voice. "If it had been just Tom and I who lived here, all would have been in order. But as it is, we are not, we have to take my parents' wishes into consideration. And then, there is also a total of 13 other people who _work_ here. This is not a private home in that sense, and we can't take such liberties. The snakes stay outside, and that is final."

Harry had to agree what Tom's father said made sense, and hurried outside to let the snake slither back to its siblings and mother, waiting in their lair by the old, hollow willow near the forest edge.

* * *

The next morning came with a very uncomfortable breakfast. Lady Mary had evidently told her husband everything that had transpired the night before, and they both ignored the living hell out of their grandson and his _wicked_ _snake-daemon _friend.

Harry and Tom only found their behaviour amusing and hissed secretly to each other, laughing under their breaths while trying to catch the eyes of the Riddle couple. Tom Sr kept shooting them reprimanding looks, although he seemed amused as well by the turn of events.

Lord Thomas kept looking at his wristwatch, murmuring things into his wife's ear, stroking her hand on top of the table at times. It was a bit weird, in Harry's opinion, but no-one else seemed to take notice.

Then, Mr Bryce walked through the door, four white clad men behind him. Lady Mary and Lord Thomas arose, relief apparent on their faces, and hurried to greet the men.

"Mother, what is the meaning of this?" Tom Sr asked, a deep frown on his face. The old woman didn't meet his eyes, but only smiled softly.

Harry and Tom sprang to their feet in alarm as the four men in white coats started walking towards them, intent looks on their faces. "What do you want?" Harry screeched in alarm, and Tom hissed warningly.

"Stay away!" he commanded as one of them came too close, and the man froze, but his comrades did not. Two of them grabbed a hold of Tom, forcing an injection needle into his arm, the boy's struggles becoming weaker and weaker until he finally slumped together.

"TOM!" Harry and Tom Sr screamed in alarm, Harry trying and fighting the men off by kicking, clawing, biting. But nothing helped, and soon the world turned blurry as something was forced into his body by a sharp, evil syringe.

The last thing he saw before the world turned black was Tom's father trying to get to his son, a desperate expression on his tear-streaked face. However, he was utterly unsuccessful as his wheelchair got in the way.

* * *

A clear white roof came into view as he opened his eyes carefully.

It felt like he'd been buried beneath a ton of sand, some of it getting stuck in his eyes, some in his sore throat.

His mouth was dry, his ears were ringing.

Then – he noticed it. He couldn't move. He was stuck!

He looked down at himself and found he was lying on a hospital bed, tied to it with thick bindings over his legs, arms and chest. All he could do was twist his head back and forwards.

As he did so, he noticed Tom in an identically compromising situation, lying in a bed of his own to Harry's left. His friend lay completely still, looking up at the white ceiling with an indifferent expression.

"Tom!" Harry hissed urgently, but got no reaction out of the other. Was he still drugged? No, the drug made them fall asleep, did it not? Were there other drugs?

"Tom!" he tried again, desperate to get the other to acknowledge him. But the other didn't seem to hear him, but was in another world entirely, lost in his mind.

Harry was starting to panic, pulling against the bindings holding him. But they didn't bulge, and he could feel his breathing becoming laboured as the only thing he could think was "trapped, trapped, trapped".

Then, the heavy door decorated with a little barred window opened up, a young nurse and a bald doctor with gigantic eyeglasses walked into the room.

"Pain, you say?" the doctor murmured and the nurse nodded eagerly.

"Yes, indescribable pain in my head, whenever he looked at me. Doris had to rush in and inject him with a sedative for it to go away."

"So _the boy_ inspired severe pain originating in your cerebral cortex?" The doctor looked intrigued, a wild gleam dancing in his eyes as he looked at Tom hungrily.

"Well... If you mean in my head, then, yes," the nurse said, looking a bit uncertain.

"I see," the doctor said, stepping closer to the beds where Harry and Tom lay wrapped into place. "Ah, I see you are awake," he said once he deigned to look at the less interesting boy to his left, Harry tensing up under the scrutiny.

"Let us go," he croaked out in a weak voice. "Please, please let us go."

The doctor only smiled at him in an infuriating way, making Harry's breathing quicken up even more, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"What an interesting scar you have," the doctor said, stretching out a meaty hand to touch it.

Harry's head started ringing and he pulled against the bindings, desperately trying to get away from the touch.

That little speck of wild panic was enough for him to lose it altogether.

Soon, he was yelling in panic for them to let him go. He felt faint, the air not enough, everything too hot, too narrow.

He needed to get out.

NOW!

There was a sudden, slight pain in his upper arm and he felt calmness sweep over him, wrapping him up as if into a snugly blanket.

Everything was alright. Calm.

And Tom was by his side.

This wasn't so bad...

"Severe claustrophobia," someone said, oh – the doctor, Harry realized. "The fear of being trapped... interesting. Keep him drugged on a small dose for the time being. I'll come up with something..."

* * *

_A/N: Don't tickle a sleeping dragon, I suppose. Hope you liked it! Thank you for the wonderful reviews and the subscription alerts. Until next time!_

_Mischief managed! _


	13. Wash the Sorrow From off My Skin

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter Thirteen

_Wash the Sorrow From off My Skin_

* * *

It was funny, the way the light tricked the walls to become visible – although there were no windows...

He could swear Hedwig flew by the barred window in the door, once. But he couldn't quite tell, because she was only a white dot disappearing into the dark blue blur. He didn't have his glasses after all... Voldemort insisted on telling him he didn't need them any more.

He stood outside, enjoying the cold evening breeze sweeping through his hair, playing with the thought of just running away. To not go back upstairs and get locked behind bars. But he hadn't brought his glasses, and he was already cold to the bone, wearing nothing but his oversized pyjamas. Besides, all of his things were still locked away in the cupboard under that stairs, and he couldn't bear the thought of loosing his wand, his broom or his father's Invisibility Cloak.

It was a bit funny his grandfathers had the cloak, and not he. It was supposed to be Charlus', but Tom insisted on stealing it anyway – even though he wasn't Harry's real grandfather.

Stuff was good to have. The Gaunts had their ring – but not their locket. The Riddles had their horses and the Dursleys their photos – without Harry, or his parents, in them.

Harry had photos, of his family, although he wasn't in those either. There was a photo of him and Harold spooning in a bed – but he didn't know who had it. There were too many alarm clock monsters in his dorm, so he couldn't go check.

He rummaged through the shelves where Dudley's old, broken toys lay, tossed away just like Harry had been. Walking along the shelves he found an old Nintendo with no remotes, a cracked bicycle helmet, a plastic jar filled to the rim with Lego covered in some goo that seemed to once have been soda or ice cream. Then there were a couple of untouched books covered with dust. One was about airplanes, another about soccer. A third one was, to Harry's delight, an adventure story called _Don Quixote _by Miguel Cervantes. That book wanted to keep Harry occupied for three days, which he would spend laying in his bed, engaging in the wacky story of the make-believe knight, Tom, and his much saner squire Harry Potter.

He just wanted to get out.

"I just want to go outside for a bit..." Harry mumbled to the big eyed nurse. She didn't answer. "But, could I go downstairs then?" Harry hurriedly rasped out. "I'll be inside, honest! And... and no _funny business_ either! I swear! Just... don't put me back _in there_. Please..."

There was a mosquito, biting him in the arm, but he couldn't help it. It made him feel funny. "Merlin's knickers, you're such a comedian" Ron said in obvious sarcasm, shaking his head with a wide grin on his face. And the Potters laughed merrily again.

"Explain why they decided to put _bars_ on your window and _seven _locks on your door!" Snape snapped snappishly. Harry didn't know – Voldemort had locked all his explanations inside the cupboard under the stairs after all...

Aunt Petunia got an unsure look in her eyes as she seemed to think hard about something. She then turned around, snapping for him to follow her, as she made her way downstairs into the kitchen. "Sit!" Snape demanded before throwing the fridge open, picking out a box of leftovers and heating it up in the microwave. He then served him the heated food with a big glass of milk before sitting down on the opposite side of the table, crossing his arms over his chest and demanding for him to "Eat!".

"Harry, please, it's nothing to be embarrassed about. You just need to eat more-" Tom said, looking down into his lap, his voice wavering.

"I _am_ eating!" he said, pointing at the untouched leftovers lying innocently in his lunch box.

"You haven't even touched it," Lily breathed out, looking him accusingly in the eyes.

Suddenly, he was weeping into Aunt Petunia's blouse, and Snape patted him comfortingly onto the back. It felt nice, he decided, being held like this. But it didn't matter – neither of them existed any more.

Then Mr Malfoy let go of him, and he knew he had Tom's diary in his back pocket. It was supposed to be there. He felt for it and soon held it in his hands.

It was little and white.

Because, Silas had started teaching Harry how to knit, and it was much harder than it seemed. He only gave the book a glance and promptly threw it into the open fire, making Alfred, Silas and Abraxas laugh right out at his failure.

The moment it hit fire Tom let out a horrifying shout of utter agony, ringing between the walls, sounding like the terrified howl of a wounded beast. He looked frightened, eyes big and gleaming, mouth wide open, chest heaving frantically.

He was moving, tearing at the air around him, making his way as if under deep water.

But he didn't move towards the fire. He did not seem to be after the diary.

He moved towards Harry.

He threw himself at him, clawing at the back of his robes, nails digging in deep, mouth letting out broken whimpers of "no, no, no".

"...no, no, no..."

Tom was lying on his own bed, to Harry's left, whimpering in his drugged state. The nurse stood at his side, smearing mud onto his scrunched up face.

The doctor nodded thoughtfully, writing something down into a little black book.

"The boy suffers from a severe case of thanatophobia. He is frightened of death itself – of dying. As a result of this ailment he also seems to have an obsessive-compulsive disorder. He feels the need to be in control – he needs to be in charge. Sometimes to the point where he gets extreme paranoia does he not control the situation. It can lead to sadistic tendencies of forcing others under his command.

"It can also lead to extreme hoarding – of collecting things, preferably which belongs to others. He also suffers from violent thoughts, things he'd like to do to those around him – they will most certainly turn perverted as his body and mind progress.

"He has obsessive thoughts. Rituals only he knows of which must be completed. Such as cleaning up repeatedly, making the bed in just the right way, of repeated checking he hasn't forgotten to turn off the lights.

"Take away his free will and he cracks – as you can see!" the doctor exclaimed, pointing at Tom who was twisting and turning on his bed, trying and get the mud off of him. "He can't stand to be dirty."

"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" Harry bellowed, feeling a bit faint, the room spinning, his forehead dripping of sweat.

The nurse hurried forwards and the mosquito was back, vicious and mean as always. He _really_ didn't like it.

"And why is that?" Harry grit out between clenched teeth, his day turning out to be just bloody _perfect_.

"Well," Tom said, his voice lowering to a discrete whisper. "Because of your condition. I don't want to embarrass you or anything, but, you're just too... _frail_. You'd get hurt."

"What? What condition?" Lily whispered in confusion.

"I don't have a _condition_!" Harry snapped.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Tom exclaimed, looking all flustered and apologetic. "I thought you'd told her."

"Told me _what_?" Lily pressed, looking at her son intently.

"He's scared of heights," Harry hissed in a low voice.

"Let me go, let me go, let me go," Tom chanted furiously but Harry only smiled coldly. He had his tormentor in a firm grasp, completely at his mercy, and he enjoyed the infrequency of not being the victim for once.

"What, you want me to let you go? But it's such a high fall, Tom, you would get hurt," he whispered sweetly into his captive's ear, noticing with wonder big beads of sweat had started streaming from out of the other's forehead.

He realized Tom was actually frightened to death. Scared out of his mind.

"The boy suffers from a severe case of thanatophobia. He is frightened of death itself – of dying," the doctor explained in a drawling voice. Harry quickly pulled Tom to his feet and straightened up himself, finding Draco Malfoy in the company of a green-haired Leda, standing by the corridor entrance looking at them in disbelief.

"Piss off, Malfoy" he hissed at the other who smirked nastily as he caught sight of Harry's distorted face.

"Who locked you up, Potter, I want to send them flowers!"

Leda smirked nastily. He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared. "Well, I've got news for you, _Antevorta_. I'm locking you up! You're never going back to that school, never! And if you try and magic yourself out they'll expel you!" And laughing like a maniac he dragged Harry back downstairs. He let him go in the middle of the Slytherin common room and disappeared into thin air.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Silas singsonged mockingly. The others snickered and looked at each other, internally deciding what to do with their prisoner.

"Come to spy on us, Potter, notice-me-not charm gone wrong?" Abraxas mocked acidly and Harry flew to his feet, a terrified look on his face, masking the true anger he in fact felt.

"Maybe he's too stupid to realize he's not welcome here – the idiot! Probably thinks he's above all the rules, thinks he's _special_ because he's from the _asylum_," Alfred jeered, the others laughing merrily in agreement.

"I wouldn't put it past him," Romulus said lazily. "He's already passed the boundaries, sitting in the Slytherin heir's lap, after all. Why not make the entire Slytherin house his personal playground?"

"What is this? What is that _Gryffindor_ doing in here?" Snape said in a happy voice and rolled up his sleeves carefully. Harry saw the base of a weird looking tattoo on his left forearm. It was a snake nailed to a rotting wooden door.

"Harry!" it hissed urgently.

Harry took pity on it and bent down to croon the terrified little baby snake to slither his way. Once it came close enough he picked it up carefully and started petting it over the head.

"Harry!" it hissed again, sounding very annoyed.

"I'm here, don't worry. I'm not gonna let her step on you," Harry hissed back at it, cradling it carefully to his chest.

"Stop talking nonsense and look at me!" it hissed, piercing him with dark green eyes.

There was a mockingly exaggerated snoring coming from Fire, and Ice started laughing loudly, throwing pillows at Lambert's bed, obviously not in the mood to let him go to sleep quite yet. Then they started singing.

"Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb

Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow

And everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went

Everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go."

"Harry! Snap out of it!" the snake hissed, twisting and turning in his hands.

Lambert was very snippy, and followed his mistress' orders like a trained lap dog. He walked through the door, four white clad men behind him. Mary and Thomas arose, relief apparent on their faces, and hurried to greet the men. The romance novel lay discarded at the floor – tossed away just like Harry had been.

"This is _not_ good," Harry hissed at the snake secretly. "Something bad's gonna happen."

"Harry, look at me," Tom said and Harry did as commanded. Tom was the one who had the weird gift of commanding people... and animals for that matter.

"What is it?" he asked, staring into the dark green eyes of his best friend. It was safe, he knew. And no-one else could understand what they said. Only Morfin, but he wasn't there. They were alone.

Almost.

There was a pale face staring at them from behind the barred window in the door.

"Harry, look at me!" Tom snapped and got what he wanted instantly. "We will get out of here. I'll fucking kill them, I swear it," he said solemnly. Harry believed him without question.

"I love you," Harry confessed, smiling softly at his flabbergasted best friend. Then, the door flew open and three nurses rushed inside, followed by the doctor.

"See? See?" the peeping Tom said excitedly. "They're hissing at each other like snakes! Just like Lady Riddle told us when she called in!"

"Could they, perhaps, be possessed by an evil spirit?" another said and the doctor smirked thinly.

"There is no such thing as spirits and possessions, lass. No, this must be some sort of side effect of their mental instabilities. They are both helplessly disturbed, I'm afraid," although he looked wickedly pleased as he said it.

Then, he pressed his hands to his head as Tom inflicted severe pain in his enemy.

"I believe it's time for another dose – Doris?"

The nurse hurried forwards and drugged Tom into a restless sleep. Harry was next.

"We'll fucking kill you," he said, staring the doctor deep into the eyes. The bald man smiled excitedly and then darkness took him.

* * *

"... kill... kill them... I'll kill them... kill them... kill... kill... I'll kill them..."

The position of his body was weird – as if somebody had put a dozen pillows under his head, forcing him upwards into a half-sitting position although his bindings were still firmly in place.

Pasty, tasteless broth was forced into his mouth by an insistent spoon invading uninvited. Such poor manners.

"... can do a wandless _imperio_... can do a wandless _crucio_... should be able to do a wandless _avada kedavra _too..."

Harry didn't like being fed. But he couldn't move. He desperately tried to swim up to the surface, to open his eyes.

"...only Muggles... they're only Muggles... useless, filthy Muggles..."

"Shut your trap, boy! You. Are. Not. A. Snake!" the force-feeder snapped viciously and the hissing stopped. Tom was most certainly glaring by now.

Then, there was a terrible scream as the nurse was stricken by insufferable pain. Harry snapped his eyes open just to see her run out the door, terrified.

"Yeah, you run," Harry croaked out weakly. There was an uncomfortable ache in his back, but he couldn't move an inch, too wrapped up to change it.

He was still trapped...

"Harry," Tom said, "I'll get us out. Next time any of them enters I'll command them to let us go. Alright? I'll end it. We'll get out of here."

Trapped...

"Harry!"

"Yeah..." he said lamely, turning to face Tom, his face slightly blurry. Why did it have to be so bloody _hot_ in there? "Great, do that..."

"You need to calm down," Tom said, a deep frown on his forehead. "Breathe properly!"

He was breathing. Very much so. Very, very, very much so. He was breathing so much that the air could barely keep up. It felt heavy.

Not enough.

"Stop breathing like that!" Tom snapped. He sounded frightened.

"I can't," Harry said shakily, a heavy lump in his throat.

Trapped!

Trapped!

Trapped!

"Good day, boys."

"Let us go!" Tom said in a commanding voice. Through his blurry vision Harry could see the doctor tense up and take a wobbly step forwards.

"Oh no, you!" a nurse exclaimed angrily, flying forwards like an angry harpy, needle held high, diving down into Tom's thin, pale arm.

The doctor stopped.

Tom hissed groggy nonsense.

Then, the doctor proceeded and started unhinging the bindings holding the boy. "Swell, what an excellent opportunity for running some tests. Lass, would you prepare room 32 for us, please?"

Trapped!

Trapped!

Wait – what was he doing?

He was taking Tom!

"NO!" Harry bellowed, twisting, turning, pulling against his bindings.

The doctor unclasped the last hinge and hauled the boy to his feet with a strong grip around his back, his meaty left hand coming up underneath Tom's left armpit.

"NO! DON'T TAKE HIM! DON'T TAKE HIM! YOU CAN'T! TOM!" Harry screamed, blind fear, wild panic engulfing him.

His ears were ringing furiously.

They couldn't separate them! They _couldn't_!

The doctor was at the door when it happened. Harry's bindings just disappeared.

Just like the glass window in the muggle zoo on Dudley's eleventh birthday, the bindings were nowhere to be seen.

Harry flew off of the bed and hauled himself at his best friend, trying to rip him out of the doctor's beefy hands. Tom was fighting too, doing his best to cling back with the little strength the drug left him.

"No, you little-" the doctor hissed, pulling his right fist back in preparation to punch, Harry bracing himself for the pain.

The fist halted mid-air.

Another hand had caught the doctor's arm just in time.

"_Stupefy_" the owner of the hand grit out viciously, and the doctor's heavy body fell to the floor, unconscious.

Harry readjusted his grip on Tom, holding him in a tight embrace, and looked over his black, messy locks of hair.

"Charlus," he croaked out in disbelief.

His cousin looked at him warmly, just briefly, and turned around in the door to shout out to someone outside. "FOUND THEM! THEY'RE HERE!"

* * *

The boys did not speak one word as they were taken from the Muggle asylum. Not as they were brought to the Potter home in Godric's Hollow. Not as they were gently guided to the kitchen table to have some much needed food. Not as they sat eating it, searching each other's hands out under the table, which worked out fine even though they were eating at the same time because Harry was right handed and Tom left handed.

They listened to the conversations going on around them – of people lamenting what had happened to them, of ministry officials visiting to take charge of the situation, of Uncle Leonard and Walter gossiping about what had happened at the Riddle mansion once the boys were taken away.

Apparently, Tom Sr had tried and speak to his parents, to no avail. They had been firmly set in their opinion that they had done the right thing and gotten help for those who needed it. The butler had been on their side, and Tom Sr had had to sneak around in his own house to reach the phone, so that he could at last contact the Muggle police.

Tom's grandparents would now have to go through a long legal process, one that the ministry of magic no doubt would stick its nose into – the matter was about two magical children after all.

Harry and Tom listened to all of this but did not speak one word. Not a thing. They just sat close to each other holding hands, emptily staring into the nothingness.

People came up to them, hugging, squeezing shoulders, caressing cheeks, telling them everything would be alright, that they were safe now.

They just sat there, accepting it, keeping as close to each other as they could.

At one point Walter seated himself directly in front of Harry, claiming his attention. "I expect the following days to be a bit... wild, Harry," he said, looking solemn.

"Why?" Harry croaked out, his voice small and shaky from lac of use.

"You see, when we first got you, there were a lot – and I mean _a lot –_ of people searching us out, wanting to speak to you because of your time travelling. They were reporters, mostly, but also politicians and plainly ordinary people who had heard of you as well. You were in the newspaper, if you didn't know... But we never told them anything, and we've managed to keep them away all this time – you've also been safe from them whilst at Hogwarts.

"But, _now_, after this... Well, the spotlight has returned to you. As the legal process progresses with your grandparents, Tom, I assume there to be a bit of chaos coming our way. There will be a lot of reporters, wanting to be just _that one _who gets to interview you, any of you. However, you absolutely do not have to tell them anything – it's your choice. And whatever you choose to do, we'll stand behind you. We'll support you, Harry, don't worry. And you too, Tom, if you need it."

They just nodded their acceptance, and Walter smiled slightly before arising to go talk a bit more to the other people crowding the house. After a while Nicole came up to them, telling Tom kindly but firmly she would be taking him home to his father. That finally got a reaction out of the boy, who arose so violently the chair flew backwards, crashing onto the floor loudly. Harry stood up as well, standing close as to calm him down.

Tom was shaking in held back fury, his eyes wide, teeth showing in a predatory growl. "No!" he snapped, backing away to get out of reach.

"Can't he please stay, just over the night, at least?" Harry pleaded softly, looking up at his mother with deep hurt shining through his eyes. Nicole looked at them, her face scrunching up in compassion, and let her hand run through Harry's hair down to his cheek.

"Of course, sweetheart, of course," she said, and suggested they'd go to bed. They followed her advice gladly – it had been a very long day. They got changed and readily crawled into Harry's bed, lying next to each other on their backs, staring silently into the ceiling.

The feeling of finally being able to relax slowly sneaked up on Harry, and soon he was weeping, his face feeling white hot as uncontrollable sobs broke their way out of him. His vision was blurry with tears, his nose thickening with snot and his mouth shivered with broken whimpers and silent breaths. Tom was squirming uncomfortably next to him, sighing deeply.

"Stop crying, you wimp!" he hissed out between his teeth when the sobs didn't stop.

"It's just..." Harry gasped out, his voice thick, "it's just that... these things keep happening to me... why? What have I done that was so bad... so bad people hate me so much... so much that they keep locking me up? Keep... tossing me away... And, this time it's worse because... because of the things they did to us... It was so messed up, and that doctor... it was just horrible, and I... I couldn't do anything, I was just lying there while he... while you-" he couldn't finish the sentence but broke down in sobs again, shivering as if cold under the ruby red bed covers.

Tom was shifting away from him, grinding his teeth, staring resolutely into the ceiling with a stony expression.

"I'm sorry" Harry gasped out, guilt ridden he'd not only let himself get pulled through hell, but also because he'd been unable to do anything else than watch as Tom was being exposed to the hot flaming hell as well.

"I'm so sorry... sorry," he kept saying, unable to stop as the deep guilt and misery rode him.

Suddenly, there was a violent twist of sheets as Tom whipped around and clamped steely fists around Harry's upper arms, painfully. "SHUT UP!" he growled, pushing the other deep into the mattress. "Stop being so bloody pathetic! It happened – so what! It's over, it's done, it is what it is. So _stop_ whimpering about it! Stop being so _weak_!"

"It's not _weak_!" Harry contradicted heatedly. "Hell, it's expected! _Bad things happened_! Of course I'm not unaffected! You can't be either – no-one could!"

"I'm not weeping like some bloody baby," Tom hissed viciously.

"Well, maybe you should!" Harry growled out, ripping his sore arms out of the other's tight grip to wrap them around Tom's back instead – crushing his best friend down into a restraining embrace.

"Cry!" he ordered tonelessly.

Tom twisted and squirmed to get away, but Harry wouldn't have it but clung on to him like a leech, wrapping his legs as well around the other as to keep him still.

"Cry!" he said again once Tom stopped his tries of escape.

"You know I _can't cry_!" the other hissed out furiously.

"Yes you can!" Harry contradicted immediately. "You said so yourself! You 'barely cried' as a baby, right? That means you _did_, sometimes! So – cry!"

"I lied, I only said so to... I didn't mean it – I can't cry!" Tom gasped out, a desperate tone in his voice, as if he tried and hurry the words along as to get rid of them.

"Don't! Don't try and get out of this by lying -"

"I'M NOT!" Tom assured him desperately, his voice thick and breathy. "I'm not lying! I only said what I did so that you wouldn't see – wouldn't understand what a _freak _I am! You'd already disapproved of my secret desires to hurt those around us. You couldn't stand it! It was something that made you look down on me – as if I was a horrible person just for thinking it-"

"No, I didn't-" Harry tried to interrupt, but Tom wouldn't be stopped.

"And I couldn't tell you how I lay in bed at night, at the orphanage, trying to force myself to cry, but couldn't, because _he_ had done something. Because _she _was threatening me with the asy-asylum... because you'd think even worse of me, because it's unnatural – _inhuman_! And then... then you found out what I could do – and you reacted just like I knew you would! You hated me!"

"I didn't-" Harry tried again, but wouldn't be listened to.

"And then you knew and I tried – I did my best to act normal in front of you – but you saw. You saw me with the horses and I... I could tell you hated me for it! And then... everything else... that doctor... You know it all – you know _everything_! Every little thing that is wrong with me! Everything that makes me into something else – a freak of nature – aren't I? I'm wicked – nothing special – just wrong, wrong, wrong!"

There was a little whimper at the end of his tirade, but it was only followed by heavy, angry pants. Harry reached one of his hands out to card it through Tom's dark locks of hair carefully, murmuring soothing words of "No, no Tom, I don't hate you, it's alright."

Then, a violent shiver went through the body lying heavily on top of his own, and Tom clutched back, burrowing his face in the crook of Harry's neck.

And wept.

Heavy, dry sobs ripped themselves out of the boy's throat and fat, salty tears started dripping down onto the pillow beneath them.

Tom was crying for the first time in his life.

It was raw, desperate and painful. Harry just lay there, crying as well, holding his friend.

And they shared the deep misery until they both fell asleep.

* * *

They were walking the gravel road up to Tom's home in Little Hangleton, watching the scenery around them with detachment.

They'd insisted on going alone – they didn't want an escort. Didn't want to be viewed as helpless.

They'd made a pact this morning, once waking up in Harry's comfortable bed.

"Never again, I won't stand for it. I won't let myself be victimized. Ever," Tom had said, starring his friend deep in the eyes.

"Never again victimized," Harry had agreed in complete understanding and made a firm decision then and there never again to let himself get locked in – get treated like some wicked freak, like a victim. He'd learn to defend himself – whatever it took.

Once they reached the iron gates of the Riddle mansion grounds Tom halted his steps, looking uncertain.

"They're not there," Harry said calmly.

"I know," Tom agreed in a toneless voice. "It's just... Won't he look at me differently? Won't he think I'm weak or... look down on me... because I let myself get caught like that?"

"No," Harry answered immediately, dead certain. "The last thing I saw before I blacked out was him. He was trying his best to get to you. He was crying because he couldn't... because of his disabled legs... If anything he'll expect _you_ to look down on _him_ for failing you. For not being able to do anything as they took you away."

"Alright," Tom said and started walking again. "What should we do about the reporters your father talked about?" he asked as to distract himself.

"I think we should talk to them," Harry said calmly. Tom looked at him with eyebrows raised.

"Don't you hate public attention?"

"I do," Harry agreed. "But this is different. People need to know... They have to learn of what happened to us. They need to know how dangerous Muggles can be... what their ignorance can lead to. This can't happen to others – we have to stop it. We have to tell the world."

"Muggles are fucking wastes of space," Tom muttered acidly.

"Some of them," Harry agreed, nodding meaningfully at the person in the distance, sitting trapped in a wheel-chair, waiting for them in front of the lavish mansion. "Then, there are others..."

* * *

_A/N: That's a wrap everybody! The last chapter in my first fanfic... It has been quite a journey. I hope you had as much fun as I had! _

_And thank you SO much for all the reviews, all the favouritism and subscribing. You rock my world, not a lie! You guys are so awesome with your praise, funny comments and marriage proposals (I actually got one, which is wickedly awesome, thank you dear!). You never failed to put a wide grin onto my face every single time you wrote me something. _

_And a special thank you to my dear friend who read all of my chapters and then sent me cell-phone messages, praising me rotten. You are awesome!_

_If you liked the story and want more... Stay tuned for the sequel, which I will be posting in a near future. _

_Until then! _

_Mischief managed! _


	14. Extra: My December

**Castle of Glass**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

_A/N: Hello there! I just wanted to make a short announcement that I have started to publish the sequel to this story, just in case some of you have missed it. It is called _**By Your Side**_ and can be found on my author's page. _

_But, I didn't want to turn an entire chapter into an author's note – so, I decided to get rid of one of my many persistent plot-bunnies. This is a one-shot that has been on my mind ever since I first listened to the song – and ever time I did after that as well. Hopefully, it won't bother me as much now that it is written out. _

_I hope you like it!_

_**Update! 13-04-2013**_

_I am happy to announce the entire story Castle of Glass is now proof read by the wonderful Arithmancy Master. Thank you, thank you for doing this for me, I owe you so much. _

Extra Chapter

_My December_

* * *

**30th December, 1933**

It was still dark outside. It was about nine o'clock in the morning – Tom knew – he'd eaten breakfast downstairs with the others, he'd gotten dressed in his ragged, grey garments and bathed properly for once. The orphanage usually didn't have hot water for the children to cleanse themselves in, only slim basins where they could wash up standing, rock hard soaps that stung when you rubbed them against skin.

But this was the day before New Year's Eve and the children should be cleaned up properly. The same kind of ritual happened every time a holiday was coming. At Christmas, the Holy Saturday, All Saints Day and so on. The children were lined up, as if they were to be vaccinated, and scrubbed clean by a vicious sponge and the stinging soap. Afterwards, they were all shining bright pink, like pigs. But they smelled better, Tom would have to admit. The constant filth and grime was getting to him. It was everywhere, on everyone. In the very air. Inescapable.

This kind of ritual also took place before an appointed adoption. The children of the right gender or age were picked out and scrubbed clean from head to toe, to present as good an impression on the adoptive parents as possible. This happened to Tom approximately 10 times a year. Sometimes more, sometimes less. The amount of times becoming fewer and fewer as he grew older. People wanted young children – babies if they could get them – not rowdy teenage boys.

Tom could tell something was going on downstairs – something Tom would rather not think about – something that had made Mrs Cole especially snippy, although she hardly was what one could call easy on regular days either. He feared they were preparing for an adoption, and that he would feature in it. It wasn't that he didn't want to get out of this hell of his – of course he did, in a heartbeat if he could! But he couldn't. He was only setting himself up for yet another disappointment.

Every time, the same thing. It was like a frightening nightmare, repeating itself into infinity.

It was still dark outside – because of the heavy snow littering the ground, because the sun took its merry time rising over the horizon, because the heavy industry smoke made the very air around these parts dark and musky.

Just the way Tom liked it. He liked it dark, mysterious and cold. It was his December after all. His time of the year.

There was a sharp rap at the door, and Tom's stomach turned to ice as the door opened and he caught sight of the one person he did not want to see. The same person that _always_ came to call him downstairs for an adoption visit.

Martha.

She didn't need to say anything, she only nodded to him, telling him with one look to get downstairs. She then continued down the corridor to rap at one, two, three, four.. five more doors. They were facing a couple looking for children of mixed gender around the age of 5-7, in other words.

Tom let out a deep sigh, slipped off of the rickety cot and followed his peers downstairs into the living room at the end of the ground floor corridor. There, sitting in the freshest available sofa, were a man and a woman, holding hands, talking softly to Mr and Mrs Cole.

It was like déjà vu.

The children were lined up in front of the adoptive parents, so that they could be inspected, asked questions and poked at. Like bloody animals at a zoo, Tom thought with dread.

The couple sat talking in calm voices, looking the children over, nodding their heads, asking the Coles for details about birth, interests and personalities. Suddenly, the woman arose and stepped closer to the line of children, and closer still to come stand immediately in front of Tom.

The boy was battling a furious inner fight not to sneer at her. He already knew in detail how this would play out.

"Hello there, Tom," the woman said with a sweet smile on her lips, her slanted brown eyes sparkling in interest. "How do you do?"

"I am well, thank you," he answered her mechanically, as if he'd been handed a script beforehand and was now only reciting lines to the hopeful mother-to-be in front of him. In the corner of his eye he saw how Mr Cole arose from his seat and started to walk towards them. He was smiling softly, as if he was already enjoying what he was about to do.

The woman opened her painted mouth to deliver another predictable question when Mr Cole came to stand beside them, laying a seemingly protective hand onto Tom's knobbly shoulder.

"I see you have taken an interest in Tom, here," he said, his voice tainted with utmost regret. That kind that was so obvious that, if you could read people even remotely well, you would notice it was not in any way sincere.

The woman didn't seem to notice, though. Naturally – they never did. Gullible idiots!

"Yes," she said, her soft smile widening to show off a row of perfectly even, pearl white teeth. "He looks a lot like my father, you see, he has the same hair, the same feel to him... I think he'd fit in quite well into our little family."

"I'm sure he would," Mr Cole agreed, patting Tom's shoulder with a hand that was supposed to be comforting. It made Tom want to bite it. Hard. "He is a wonderful boy, truly. But you see, we've had him since he was a baby, and he's grown up here. We're the only family he knows and... well, I can't deny I think of him especially as my own son. I hope you understand, letting go of Tom wouldn't only be painful for me and my wife. It would be completely devastating for the boy as well."

"Oh," the woman said, frowning in confusion and compassion. Both at the same time. So disgustingly predictable.

"I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs Lovecraft, I didn't know he'd happened to slip downstairs with the others. He wasn't supposed to be here, I beg your forgiveness."

Tom gritted his teeth together, a few of his milk teeth loosening further by the pressure and friction. The metallic taste of blood made itself known.

It was so typical! So perfectly constructed. There hadn't been a mishap – of course not! This entire situation had been designed to work every single time someone took notice of Tom and wanted to adopt him. Mr Cole would always rush forwards, stopping them, claiming to love him, although he really didn't. He enjoyed it that way – wanted it to be that way.

He took pleasure from seeing the sparkling interest build up in the parents' eyes, to be blown out like the flame of a candle once he told them that adoption wouldn't be possible. He took more pleasure still from seeing the flickering hope of a better life grab hold of Tom, to be squashed like a bug moments later when the restricting hand came down onto his shoulder.

The entire scene was staged to pleasure him. And it worked like a clockwork without fail, every single time.

Mrs Lovecraft swallowed it, just like everybody else before her, hook, line and sinker. Not questioning it for even one second. She didn't want to split up a family after all.

It didn't take long for the couple to regroup and pick out their darling child – a boy of eight, with the same shade of hair colour Tom had, but with a lot more meat on his bones.

The adults went to the office to sign papers, the boy was ordered to his room to pack, and the other children were forced into their worn outerwear to go outside and enjoy the freezing winter day. The sun was up – at long last, by popular opinion. Tom would have preferred it if it hadn't bothered to show up at all.

* * *

The entire courtyard was covered in snow. It ran up to the hips on most children, as they plodded through, throwing balls of snow at each other, laughing brightly, throwing themselves backwards onto their backs to make snow angels. Tom was taller than most kids his age, and the snow only reached up to his thighs, enabling him to walk easier, making it around the house edge towards the great, half-dead tree at the back. The snow blanket was thinner here, the ground covered by the branches stretching high enough to grace the orphanage roof.

He sat down, leaning against the trunk, closing his eyes in deep misery.

This was his December. This was his snow covered tree. Yet, this was him alone. There was no one to _know_ it was his December. No one to understand what that meant. No one for him.

It hurt, horribly! Because he _knew_ he wasn't unwanted. There were plenty of people who could consider sharing their lives with him. That fact was dangling in front of his face like a teasing bait, twitching away just out of reach every time he tried for it.

But others, people like _him_, like that other boy, they got it. Easily. Without asking for it. Without trying. It wasn't fair!

This was _his_ December! _His _time of the year! Why couldn't they see that?

He opened his eyes as the sound of breathless, merry voices came closer to his hiding spot. Three little girls. Defenceless little girls, coming his way. They wouldn't last long, they'd get adopted in a heartbeat, no doubt. People liked young, cute little girls.

Tom hated them. Hated how easily they got away. Hated how they would get away from here while he was stuck, unable to escape this hell of a life.

He narrowed his dark green eyes at them, wanting them to hurt. To feel the pain he himself felt at being neglected. Left out. Singled out.

One of them, unexpectedly, let out a terrified little yelp, clutching her head as if in pain. Tom watched, wide eyed, as she sagged together, the pain apparently gone, and started to wail out her pain. Fat tears was rolling down her pink cheeks.

That made him even angrier. That she could do that. That she was normal. That she could have everything that he couldn't.

So he wished pain on her again, and was engulfed by a cheer sense of accomplishment, of giddiness when she started screaming out the agony, her friends shuffling about in panic. They were running for Martha, standing in the other end of the courtyard, berating some of the older boys for throwing snowballs at the younger children. Her sharp, squeaky voice could be heard clearly over the open space.

Left alone with his victim, Tom walked closer, watching with interest how the girl trashed about, wailing like a little baby. How pathetic!

He bent down to tell her this, whispered it sweetly into her little ear. Told her how stupid she was, how pathetic she was behaving. How much better than her he was.

Then, he was yanked to his feet by a furious Martha, his arm held in a painful grip as the woman yelled at him. The girl at his feet had stopped screaming. The pain had come to an end. For her...

* * *

He was disposed of into his room. Grounded. Not allowed to come back downstairs until he was being _nice_ again.

As if that would ever happen.

Tom was sitting on his cot, glaring into the wall, wishing someone would understand this was _his_ December, and that he shouldn't be treated like this.

The door opened, letting a livid Mrs Cole inside. Tom almost thought he could spot steam coming out of her ears as she stalked closer to his bed, her heels clanking sharply against the old floorboards of the slim little room.

"You little misery!" she spat out, slapping his cheek hard, so that his head involuntary snapped to the side by the force of it. The spot where the hand had connected with his face became white hot and swollen in a matter of seconds. Mrs Cole continued with her furious tirade, letting out her frustration, promising certain pain to come to him if he ever tried something like that again.

She clearly didn't understand. She didn't know why he'd done it in the first place. Or _what_ he'd done. She only knew he'd hurt the little girl somehow. She didn't know anything. She had no clue this was his time of the year.

Tom narrowed his eyes at her, imagining her writhing at his feet in desperate agony, and soon, she reeled back, eyes wide. She didn't seem to be in much pain, not like the little girl had, but she clearly felt something was amiss. She looked at him as if he was some sort of demon sent from the devil himself to torment her.

"Now you listen, you little vermin," she grit out, a wild gleam dancing in her eyes, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. "You will stop whatever it is you are doing, this second, or you won't like the consequences of it. Do you hear that, boy, listen! I will send you to the asylum," she said, spelling the words out carefully. "The asylum, no questions asked, and they will keep you locked up there. Don't doubt it. Your strangeness has no limit, and they will keep you there _forever_. Do you want that, demon child?"

And with that, she whipped around and promptly left the room, slamming the door closed behind her, locking it before stomping down the stairs and far away from him.

She'd won, and she knew it.

* * *

White crystal snowflakes, falling from the dark dark sky.

Tom knew it was late, that soon the clock would strike twelve and he would be one year older.

He knew he should be asleep, he knew all the other children were asleep. But he didn't care – he wasn't like them after all. And this was his time of the year. _His_ December.

He sat looking out, wondering about things. Was this it? Would this be his life? Would he spend his entire childhood at the orphanage and leave to find some manual work when he got old enough? It didn't seem right somehow. It seemed awkward – wrong.

But what else was there?

He heard his door creak open behind him, and turned in his chair to look at the impostor.

Mr Cole.

He looked absolutely giddy, for some reason, and strode forwards confidently to sit down onto Tom's rickety cot. His smile grew while he sat staring Tom in the eyes, but he didn't say anything. He only sat there, looking, smiling. Being an alien object disabling things in the room to be like usual. Safe. He removed every inch of safety only by being present. And he knew it.

Tom turned around again to gaze out the window, doing his best to ignore the grown man intruding on his privacy. Leering at his back. Sitting in silence for what felt like hours.

Then, he looked at his wristwatch and let out a little snigger. "Midnight, kid," he said, kicking the leg of Tom's chair to startle a reaction out of him. It worked. Tom whipped around to look at him in attention.

"This is your birthday, Tom. Congratulations. Too bad there's no one for you to celebrate with. Had your chance this morning, didn't you. I guess there's no one who wants you badly enough to fight for you, is there? I can see why. Who would want a worthless little brat like you?"

Tom saw more than felt how his hands were trembling with rage. How could he say something like that? How _dared _he?

This was his time, his day, his December!

Tom levelled his death glare on Mr Cole, wishing dearly to inflict pain severe enough to kill. But once his eyes met those of the grown man, he faltered, hesitated. His hands started trembling even more, and he averted his eyes immediately.

He couldn't do it.

Not because of the threat of the asylum. Mr Cole wouldn't send him there – not when he was such a fun plaything for him. Mrs Cole might, so he couldn't hurt her again.

But there was something stopping him from inflicting pain in his tormentor. Something so terrible it left a bitter taste in his mouth, stinging the side of his eye like a persistent fly.

Fear.

He feared Mr Cole.

This was the one person he needed to protect himself from, and he couldn't.

It was gone.

December, _his_ December, was gone.


End file.
